The Steadfast Tin Soldier
by selmak
Summary: For the MinervaFest 2010 - Prompt: How do Moody and Minerva deal with the fact that during the GoF year, she did not realize that he'd been replaced by an impostor?
1. Chapter 1

**For the Minerva Fest - **  
**Prompt Author:** Requested by Kelly Chambliss ~ written by Sel  
**Prompt**: How do Moody and Minerva deal with the fact that during the GoF year, she did not realize that he'd been replaced by an impostor? Their past relationship can be whatever you like: at school together, friends from the early Order days, lovers, enemies, etc.  
**Summary:** Minerva hopes that Alastor will never know exactly what Minerva McGonagall did with Barty while the real Alastor was in the trunk.  
**Warnings:** possibly DubCon depending on your definition of informed sexual consent. No rape.  
**Disclaimer:** "Harry Potter" belongs to J.K. Rowling and her legal licensees.  
**Author's Notes**: T

Thank you to the Letters Kelly, Terri and Lyndsey and T for their editing, auditing and suggestions.

**-o-0-o-**

The first thing Minerva McGonagall did, after the realization that Professor Alastor Moody was in fact Barty Crouch, Junior, was take command of the chaos. She didn't even stop to inhale deeply or allow herself a mere human moment for wobbly knees. No, as a seasoned veteran of the Order of the Phoenix, she was cool and level-headed in an emergency, never more then when her students were in crisis. Cedric Diggory was dead, Voldemort had returned, Harry Potter was having his crisis du jour, Alastor Moody… the _**real**_ Alastor Moody was in a bad way after being in his godforsaken trunk for God knows how long and Albus Dumbledore needed her to be rock-steady.

Ignoring the mental taunts of her subconscious was beyond difficult. The snide voice kept jeering, exactly how long had Alastor Moody been in his trunk? Only for a few days, perhaps… perhaps a month… for the love of everything Minerva held dear, bloody Alastor Moody could _**not**_ have been locked in his trunk since before the Yule Ball… certainly he could not have been in the trunk since before the start of the school year.

Somebody would have noticed.

Somebody _SHOULD_ have noticed.

_**SHE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN. **_

After the circus had been packed up, the Ministry and its clowns all but forcibly removed from Hogwarts, Albus and Minerva held a long, rational conversation. After much sober discussion, their consensus was that Alastor Moody had been in the goddamn trunk since bloody _**August**_. That decided, Minerva calmly walked back to her quarters. She went to her wardrobe, and deliberately took out a long, green dress that she had once worn to the Yule Ball. The matching shoes and the hat were also removed. She put them into a small pile in the middle of her bedroom and she calmly, intentionally and methodically Incendio'd them.

Carefully done, so not to incinerate anything but the clothes, she deliberately watched them burn into ash which was then Displaced into her fireplace. Wishing that she could burn her memories as easily.

That done, Minerva McGonagall went to her bathroom, where she took a long, hot shower and scrubbed herself until her abused skin was raw and bleeding. But it was far too late to remove the taint of Barty Crouch, Junior from her skin.

The clothes had been burned, but the memories still festered. The awkward, fumbling encounter after the Yule Ball that hadn't been particularly satisfying… and had left her feeling… soiled. She struggled to repress how trapped she had felt, how he had followed her around Hogwarts, obvious in his desire for a repeat. There had been something _**off**_ about Alastor that had deeply disturbed her that night. Try as she might, she couldn't put her finger on what was so damn wrong that she had fled back to her quarters before the night was over. It wasn't just the clumsy, self-centered sex but something else.

Finally, she had dismissed her forebodings; she was merely being shallow, that Alastor's vast collection of assorted scars, burns and missing body parts had disturbed her delicate sensibilities. That she had been foolish to hope that his brutish appearance did not match the man beneath. No, her inner eye had seen clearly and the sensible, rational, pragmatic Minerva McGonagall, not having any use for her internal Trelawney, had ignored it.

And she had kept him locked in a goddamn trunk, just as surely as if she had the key.

If she had only spoken of her misgivings to Albus, perhaps Albus would have investigated. He knew Alastor far better than she did… He had known Alastor for far longer than she had, as Alastor had been stationed as Albus' Auror Bodyguard after the Gellert incident. Even if Albus hadn't done anything, Alastor's incarceration in the trunk would not be weighing so heavily on her soul.

"Please," she pleaded with any deity that might be listening. "Please, don't ever let Alastor know."

**-o-0-o-**

Sound of scraping metal, protesting, as each trunk compartment was opened and then closed.

Bastard had never lubricated the intricate workings of his trunk. So it protested and shrieked its metal remonstration each time Barty the Bastard opened his trunk. No… not his trunk. No, not Barty the Bastard who was impersonating Alastor Moody's trunk…no... no… no… Barty the Bastard wasn't pretending to be a trunk… the trunk that belonged to the real Alastor Moody who was .

Quick, Alastor, what's in the trunk compartments? Pop Quizzes helped keep his mind focused… somewhat… until he forgot what questions he had asked.

_First compartment._

Spell books. Grimoires. A first edition of the illustrious Grimoirium Verum, passed down from one Moody generation to the next. He'd kill the bastard if he got one spot of his Death Eater drool on his Grimoire.

If he ever got out… which wasn't happening any time soon… God knew he had tried. And each acknowledged attempt at absconding from his spacious abode earned him a round or three of being Cruciated until he wept like a wee bairn.

He bit his lip so he wouldn't giggle when Crouch the Crotch opened his trunk.

Giggling pissed off Crotch. Crotch believed that giggling meant that Alastor didn't respect him.

The key to the second compartment stuck and Bastard Barty wiggled and jiggled the key.

"Should take better care of the trunk," Alastor growled. "Da always said…take good care of your equipment, laddie, and it will take good care of you."

Didn't Albus notice how slack the boy was? The Real Alastor Moody Locked in his Trunk would _**never**_ let his gear get buggered up.

_Second compartment._

Broken sneakoscopes. An old wand. An invisibility cloak. His second best one. Parchments. Assorted acclamations from the Ministry of Magic for services rendered, a few from India, Germany, even one from Canada.

_Third compartment. _

Lubrication for his eye. Tune-up kit for his broom. A protective amulet or three that hadn't done shite for him.

_Fourth compartment. _

Hands began to shake, his body began reacting…

Bastard would come… would bloody Imperio him again… rip his hair from its roots as he needed another graying-formerly ginger lock for his bloody Polyjuice potion. He must be nearly bald now…

Then he'd be forced to listen… listen in bespelled abhorrence and revulsion as Barty Crouch regaled the Real, Steadily Going Absolutely Raving Mad Alastor Moody with exhaustive, explicit erotic epics involving Bastard Barty's ruttings with the insatiable Minx McGonagall. The nastiest times were when Barty decided that Alastor needed to _**share**_ the experience. The faux Alastor would place Alastor's wand against his unresisting head so he could bloody _**experience**_ their couplings.

Feel, taste, smell, hear… fragments of Minerva McGonagall and Crouch… pounding her mattress.

"_You're an old man, Alastor. Sadly for me, you're a magical cripple with a short, bent wand. Unfortunately, I have to be you…and be a better you than you'd ever be… so I need to know how an old crip like you would bugger an elderly cat woman."_

Once, a long time ago… when he was still sane, he and Minerva McGonagall had been Order members. Had been friendly with the witch yet certainly had never bedded her. The thought had never crossed his mind, not even ONCE, as they were polar opposites. Alastor was rough around the edges; Minerva was bit of a priss. A proper sort, prided herself on her good grammar, daintily ate her cucumber sandwiches with the crust cut off, took lady-size sips of tea. Not he, he was happy with a hearty helping of coddle and a good bitter. Cooked the coddle himself using his Mum's recipe and while it wasn't fancy, it was filling.

Minerva McGonagall, so prim, so proper, so respectable.

Alastor Moody so bloody abrasive, so uncompromising.

And apparently she had a sexual appetite that would shame the most depraved Knockturn Alley whore.

And while he was mistaken with regards to Minerva's morals, he had also thought young Crotch was a poof.

Not that the former Alastor had anything against homosexuality. To each their own was his modus operandi.

Alastor had done his own experimenting during his younger, carefree days.

He had been assigned to Albus after the wizard had defeated Gellert. Albus hadn't wanted a guard, yet the Ministry had insisted on the necessity of protecting the Hero of the Magical Realm from possible attack. They had decided that the much younger Moody would be perfect to guard Albus, as though it were possible that Moody could be useful. Perhaps, he could offer to hold Albus' coat when the defeater of Gellert Grindlewald decided to kick down the gates of Hell?

It had been awkward at first, though Alastor's gruff refusal to hero worship Albus had quickly won over Albus. Yes, he was Albus' guard, but Albus would hold no mistaken beliefs about Alastor's allegedly submissive personality. Or at least for long. He made Albus carry his own bags, tartly telling Dumbledore that he was in dire need of the exercise. And while Alastor had to sit through all of Dumbledore's classes, waiting for the student-turned-Assassin to show up, he was not to be considered Albus' teaching assistant. Therefore, Albus could not use him for an example in Human Transfiguration, because Alastor bloody knew that Albus would keep him as ginger haired bear cub for the next week – just so he could have some peace from his overly protective warder. And Alastor the bear cub would do a hell of a lot more damage to Albus' fancy clothes as the first time had been a friendly warning.

They had bonded so well that in time, Albus had made a sweetly awkward pass at him. Delicately phrased just in case Albus was mistaken and that way Alastor would not be offended. Lovers come and go, but good friends, they were not to be discarded lightly.

He was liberal in his personal relationships, so boy-boy didn't squick him in the slightest.

Plus the Auror department was proud of its august traditions. Their noble customs encompassed a wide spectrum, ranging from the spear maidens of the Amazons defending their witches with their last gasp to the Sacred (though ultimately slaughtered) Band of Thebes. He was Albus' paraibatai. A man could take pride in that accomplishment. As Albus was Albus Bloody Dumbledore, Defeater of Gellert. And if the Defender of the Entire Wizardingly World wanted to bed his ugly carcass, well, so bloody be it.

An astonishing amount of wine had been imbibed as Albus had been quite nervous, and their time together had been pleasurable. However, nothing serious had developed. Albus was too wand-shy to want more than an occasional over the ensuing decades and Alastor had his battle against Evil. Plus Moody was partial to the ladies, not the lads. It wasn't that Albus wasn't a nice amusement, but still, Alastor enjoyed the ladies.

Their nocturnal exercises were a well-kept secret twixt them. They were bloody discreet about it, complete with a carefully chosen challenge and response phrases.

And Bloody hell, they were both old men.

Yes, Albus had brought him to Hogwarts in his expressed hopes of teaching Harry Potter how to survive even with that lightning shaped target on his forehead. But bloody hell, Albus hadn't wanted just once to dally while Alastor had been at the school? Though their last few assignations had been more on the lines of long conversations, snogging and a good rub and tug more than any serious mattress bouncing. Both wizards were getting older; Alastor was missing more than his share of body parts but still… Albus hadn't once wanted to get together for old times' sake? Not even for fish and chippies and a good dark brew?

But really, the Auror intel on Azkaban Prisoner Bartemius Crouch, Junior was that he was a bloody poof. Well, a bloody, _**dead**_ poof who had experimented with the Death Eaters. Just to spite his old man after Junior had been rejected by the Auror Academy for being unsuitable. Like most young men, during his parental rebellion stage, he had discovered himself in the process, including the fact that he was a sadistic, vicious bastard.

And Barty the Bastard was getting off on Alastor being a captive audience subjected to his sexual reminiscences.

And every now and then, Alastor thought that Bastard Barty's couplings with Minerva seemed a bit… repetitively… pornographic. Really, how many times could the witch unhinge her jaw and go down on Barty in his classroom? Without permanently dislocating her jaw? Plus, he thought he remembered Cyrus Jones mentioning that one trick Minerva seemed to prefer… claimed he saw it on a Muggle porn flick. Well, maybe Minerva was a feisty witch with a taste for the kink.

Bloody hell, it wasn't proper to be thinking THAT way. Still he pondered about the duo's sexual escapades, because what else could he do in the bottom of a ten foot Containment in a seven layered magical trunk? Especially when Barty kept throwing their couplings in his face.

Making him watch, making him feel it, making his body react. Making Alastor realize that in his long life, he never once experienced a relationship that had lasted for as long, and for as intensely as Minerva and Barty had. At most, a few months, a couple weeks was more the norm. Actually, closer to one night when his partner freaked out from his scars.

But yes, Barty and Minerva's mergers… seemed… to be focus on the masculine enjoyment…

Really, Minerva had a tart tongue; wouldn't she demand that her partner focus on her satisfaction? She didn't seem to be the dainty, submissive type. That's what he always liked about her; the witch had no qualms about calling Albus Dumbledore a bloody, blooming idiot when required. In Alastor's firm opinion, Albus needed to be told he was a blooming idiot regularly. It helped keep his head a proper size so he could keep wearing those pincushions he called a hat. Especially when there wasn't a gingered-haired bear cub available for having an eppie in Albus' suite.

If he wasn't locked in an iron box with far too much time on his hands, he never would have believed that Minerva and Alastor Moody would be bedding each other. As it was, he only believed it because of his repeated viewings of the rumored tattoos. The thistle on Minerva's right breast along with the Scottish Lion on the small of her back had made a few appearances. Alastor had once overheard a Hogwarts Hen make a quip about them so he knew of the legendary tats, but he had never seen the Lion and the Thistle up close and personal until now. Plus there had been other assorted arcane markings that Minerva had no doubt picked up during her own youthful escapades.

So, if it wasn't really Minerva doing the nightly rumpy pumpy with Barty, Bad boy Barty _**still**_ knew about her tattoos.

In the darkness, the long nights of darkness in a confined space, his demons… how they taunted him. His long time friend Albus didn't know that Alastor Moody was not Alastor Moody, Arthur Weasley had been shammed also, and Minerva McGonagall was bedding Barty!

Never in their years together had she implied that she had a hankering for his bug ugly corpse, and now she was… wearing out Barty's mattress every bloody night… _**with Barty's Crotch.**_

After the first few weeks in darkness, he had begun to forget. Struggling with all his might to resist, he shattered so damn easily. He stopped counting his meals to estimate his captivity length and had long ceased enumerating each time Barty Crouch ripped a ginger lock from his head. Countless, precious memories had slipped from his mind, scattered to the winds like ash.

What his Mum had looked like, how his Da had sounded, what that girl's name was, the one with the pink hair? The one that drove him 'round the bend and back again as she was such a bloody klutz. What it felt like to be _**human**_?

Instead of a caged animal.

But his biggest fear was that he would die in his trunk.

And no one would ever know.

No one even suspected that he was in his bloody trunk because nobody bloody knew him at all. That realization was the final straw. The horrible truth shattered his soul, fragmented his resolve.

No one suspected… no one _**cared**_… as Junior had replaced Alastor Moody completely…as Albus' brother-in-arms… as Harry Potter's instructor…

The all encompassing darkness of his prison cell had forced him to face the truth.

He was a hollow shell of a man, no close friends, no lover to share his bed. And that blasted Death Eater had situated himself so perfectly as a Better Moody than Alastor was! It was galling that Junior had managed to make such a profound connection with Minerva. It wasn't the sex, well, yes, it was… but it wasn't just the physical. It was the emotional way that the two of them had coupled in a manner that the real Alastor Moody could never have managed.

So many memories slipped away, yet he cataloged and itemized every coupling of Junior with Minerva McGonagall. Because that was his life, forever and ever amen, the soul-destroying darkness liberally spiced with Bartemius' depraved bed time stories.

On the occasions when Barty forgot to feed him and his water bowl had long gone dry, the confined darkness would threaten to completely unman him. He'd snake his hand between his legs, pretend that what he was feeling, was her. That she was there, touching and taunting him in the dark while he whispered encouragements with his cracked lips. Anything, so she wouldn't stop, so he could keep feeling _**something**_… even this… that somehow he had made a _**connection**_ with another human being.

What a cruel minx she was, callously ignoring his pleas. And her bloody tongue… her bloody tongue… and her bloody lips...

If he ever got out, he'd show her… show the minx what it was like to be unmercifully teased… and… and…

If he ever got out of Hell, he'd _**never**_ be able to look the witch in her eyes again.

No, he'd be staring at her tits. She hid them, but he knew them quite well thanks to Barty. Lovely, full titties they were, a delightful mouthful and more. He'd like nothing more than after a delightful shag to fall asleep, suckling her breast. Barty never mouthed her titties, licking and sucking her sweet, pert nipples. No, he manhandled them, but he never bloody _**worshipped**_ them.

Probably would be best for her safety and the tattered shreds of her virtue if they weren't in the same room.

_**I'd like to bugger you senseless. Feel your claws rake my back… Show you what the real Alastor is like.**_

_**In all the years I've known you, you never ever once offered to go down on me. But for him… for Barty… you did! In my bloody classroom… You spread your legs for him! And you never thought… you never suspected… that you weren't screwing me!**_

Another click, and automatically, like the trained dog he was, Alastor Moody peered upward, knowing that he'd only see his bloody doppelganger. Perhaps, Barty would feed him, perhaps not, but no doubt he had a new sexual scenario with Minerva the Nympho that he desired to inflict on his prisoner.

He wasn't expecting to see Albus Dumbledore peering down at him. Albus' eyes were blue, icy flames which meant that Barty the very bad boy, was in a hell of a lot of trouble.

Behind Albus, clad in black was Severus Snape, the allegedly reformed Death Eater, intently staring at the raree show and… there was a green-eyed woman he knew entirely too well. One might say that Alastor Moody knew her biblically. Their eyes met, and she blanched when she realized anew that she had been merrily bouncing in her bed with Barty Crouch, Junior. Her mouth moved in a silent Hex… or prayer… he wasn't sure which it was… or if it was directed towards him… and he was too much of a coward to want to know.

Once was enough for him. He'd never be able to look her in the eyes again because he remembered all those times in the dark, when he rubbed and tugged, pretending it was HER. Imagining that the two of them had reached an easy, longstanding relationship where sex and closeness and trust were cornerstones.

"Alastor, are you alright?" asked Albus. His voice was compassionate and concerned.

Alastor Moody, a former Auror, still had his professional pride. He could just imagine what he looked like. He stunk of unwashed flesh and he was missing his leg and his eye.

However, once an Auror, ALWAYS an AUROR.

Even if he was wearing a tonsure cut and clad only in his smalls.

"I'm fine, Albus," Alastor lied.

**-o-0-o-**

Alastor Moody was in a private ward at Hogwarts. The Moody Monster had been cleaned, fed and watered and put in a stall for the night. He was talked out, the Ministry blokes and the Aurors had been in to see him, and he had recognized the contempt in their eyes. Stupid, weak Alastor Moody, trapped in his damn magical trunk for the last year.

But he kept his Auror oath, to protect others before himself, so he said not a word about Barty and Minerva. About what Barty had inflicted it on him, because… well, the boys at the office, they wouldn't understand. They wouldn't think it so bad, except for Minerva being a mature witch. In their little minds, it was like experiencing one of those Muggle enhanced skin sensation flics that they were always selling out of an anonymous post office box.

The boys, they couldn't understand the way it ate away at your soul, the difficulty of staying sane in a small box for so long. How easy it was to be forgetting people's faces as your captivity continued and the first slithering, stomach churning slip down the slope of insanity. Doing it because you knew you needed to feel something because once you stop feeling something… _**anything**_… you were doomed. And if the woman was banging your Polyjuiced doppelganger, then it was fine if you used her to _**feel**_, because since she was riding your broomstick … then by Hell you should be able to use her body.

He didn't do anything nasty to her. Well, the imaginary her. There was no doubt Miss McGonagall would find him hopelessly vanilla after the kinky bastard Barty. No surprise, he was just a friendless crip. After he bedded someone, he always said thank you. Never did he dismiss his lover with a slap on her arse and say 'Same time tomorrow, Tabby.'

It would have been best for him if he had died rather than face the reality of his pathetic life. Dying would have left him with a smidgeon of pride in his last few moments.

Arthur Weasley had done his charity work, already had visited the Monster, carrying a hamper full of food from Molly. It was her way of showing concern and affection. If anyone was experiencing an emotional trauma, Molly Weasley would feed 'em into catatonia.

He was so damn weak that Arthur had to feed him, because his hands shook like he had palsy. The two men had chinwagged a bit, and then Arthur had left. But not before warning him that Molly wished to visit, but promising that it would happen only when Moody was chipper.

Now, Dumbledore was sitting next to his bed, wearing an eye-bleed inducing robe.

"The ward is Warded to our voices only," Albus said to Alastor. "We need to talk and no one will hear what we say. My dear friend, I am so sorry. I should have realized it wasn't you."

"Told me that he was avoiding you," Moody explained. It wasn't Albus' burden that Alastor had gotten hog-tied by a pair of junior Death Eaters. It was Alastor's error and Alastor's blunder alone. "I just guessed that you no longer fancied a shag with me."

It was a bitter jest.

Instead, Albus took his hand in his and spoke the passphrase.

"A little sincerity is a dangerous thing."

Albus wasn't asking for intimacy, he wanted to be absolutely sure it was the real Alastor Moody. And he was reassuring the paranoid Alastor that he was the true Albus Dumbledore.

"And a great deal of it is absolutely fatal," whispered Alastor.

Unexpectedly Albus embraced him, clasping Alastor tightly against him. That simple intimacy overwhelmed him, and Alastor nearly broke down and bawled like a baby moo moo. Just because it had been so bloody long since someone... a friend... had touched him. Albus then released Alastor and positioned several pillows just so on Alastor's bed.

"I had desired to chat. I challenged him with that phrase, and he failed to respond in kind. I wasn't sure if you thought me dangerously reckless to approach you while you were in employment here. You have always been the very epitome of discretion. And I was in the mood to chat, nothing more. So, I let the matter drop," Albus admitted. "I will always blame myself for this."

"Don't," Alastor protested.

There was a long, awkward silence.

"I'm reorganizing the Order." Albus admitted.

Normally, he would have been quite confident in his belief that he would be the first person Albus asked to rejoin the Order. However, times had changed. He was old, thick and dense… he would just slow down Albus and the Order. Best keep his pride intact and not offer his assistance that was unneeded and unsolicited.

"I might like to discuss strategy with you," Albus warily offered. It was though he was feeling out Alastor's interest, as though he truly feared that Alastor might be disinterested. Or more likely the Eagle Eyed Albus had realized that Alastor's legendary iron-hearted resolve was made out of cheap tin and was giving him a way to bow out and save his pride. "Your expertise and knowledge would be invaluable. We lost so many of our senior Order members in the last war."

"I've been in a very dark place for the last months. I don't mean just physically… I mean… mentally. I fear that I am not sane." He admitted that reluctantly, his Auror pride still intact.

"You _**will**_ heal," Albus insisted. "If I could, I would take you home with me for the summer. You would have the solitude you need to heal, yet not too much isolation. However, recent events have put a damper on us sharing a pleasant summer holiday. There is much I must do; a great deal that I must research on the continent and I would not let you stay alone in my house. I have made other plans, Alastor. I am entrusting you to someone who is quite the formidable witch. There is no one else to whom that I would delegate your recovery. "

No, no, no. His stomach clenched and he felt a heaviness descend on his chest.

"Arthur didn't mention that I'd be minding the Weasley horde over the summer," Alastor quipped.

"No, Alastor. I believe that you will find a Scottish seaside holiday to be far more conducive to your recovery. You will be staying in Clachtoll, nr Lochinver. Near the Clachtoll Bay in a cottage that is only a few yards from the shore. I know how much you enjoy being seaside. "

**-o-0-o-**

Minerva McGonagall finally stopped heaving into the loo. Roughly, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Bloody hell, she had shagged Barty Crouch, Junior.

Just the once, but still, days like today, another shower was required. Especially today, as she had been commanded to take Alastor Moody on a nice summer holiday to the Scottish seaside.

Through sheer Scottish grit and determination, she had kept her composure regarding her summer assignment until Albus told she needed to get Alastor back into bed. She had reacted poorly to that, thanks to past associations but fortunately Albus had misunderstood. The dear man thought that she was offended just because he had phrased his request badly. A blushing Albus explained that he didn't want her to share her bed with Alastor; he just wanted to get Alastor back into sleeping in a real bed at night.

The traumatized Auror was sleeping on the floor because he hadn't slept on a mattress since August.

Breath freshened, teeth cleaned, clothing readjusted, armor polished and ready for war, Minerva walked to the Hospital Wing. As anticipated, Alastor Moody was anxiously waiting for her, eager to escape from Madam Pomfrey's tender mercies. The no-longer quite as solid Auror still looked rather haggard from his ordeal. However, Albus had regrown Alastor's missing hair, so he had a shock of ginger hair that he had arranged so it fell in his face. A quick glance and a Muggle might mistake him as a man in a dire need of a haircut. A shaggy man wearing a fake eye that seemed to zip, spin and rotate in a thousand different directions.

Minerva had once thought that Alastor Moody was a mountain of a man, but today, he seemed nothing more than a small, forlorn child wearing his father's great leather coat.

What the bloody hell had happened to Alastor? He had always been the lion-hearted Alastor, more than a bit rough around the edges, but an unyielding as the Rock of Gibraltar.

He looked like a battered tin soldier. Abused and broken, yet still wearing a painted on stubbornness.

That was it; his unflagging self-confidence had gone a burton.

"Ready?" She asked, attempting to have a chipper tone. After all, it was her bloody summer vacation and she was planning on enjoying it, even if she had to mind a traumatized Auror. And face on a daily basis, the reminders of the one time she decided to undo her hair and 'have a frolicking good time with the latest Doomed Professor of Defence against the Dark Arts' as Rolanda Hooch would say.

Why the hell was she feeling so bloody guilty? It wasn't even like it had been very good sex!

He nodded once.

"Are you bringing anything?" Minerva tartly retorted. The man didn't even have so much as a bag packed!

"I no longer have a trunk," Alastor tersely retorted. His tone was flat, emotionless. "I seem to have misplaced it."

"Never fear, I have packed for you, Alastor," Albus assured the Auror. He flashed a wide grin, and then extended his hand. "Take my arm, Alastor."

"Give me the coordinates, Albus. I don't need you to…" Alastor was still vainly protesting when Albus and he Side Along Appararted to Minerva's summer cottage.

**-o-0-o-**

Albus stayed long enough to be moderately useful, getting a rattled Alastor settled, before he popped off to Khuzestan or Timbuktu with a cheery ta ta. His disappearance left her to entertain a grim, taciturn Alastor Moody who was clomping through her cottage on his one good leg, vigorously testing all the various wards. The grizzled veteran of assorted wars and the survivor of an extended jolly holiday confined in a magically expanded trunk finally nodded his approval.

"It'll do," Alastor decided. Their eyes met and his fake eye began literally seizing. Rotating here and there, hither and fro, anticlockwise and a three sixty. It nearly jumped out of the socket and Alastor slapped his hand against his misbehaving eye. His face was a bright cherry tomato red and if Minerva didn't know it was physically impossible, she would have sworn that Auror Alastor Moody was blushing. However, Aurors never blushed.

"It's been bloody buggered up since Barty Crouch used it!"

Then he thumped and galumphed off to his bedroom where he barricaded the doors with a loud slam.

After so many years of teaching at Hogwarts she had a developed a sensitivity to magic being cast. What Alastor was casting was a nice piece of Charm work yet it was most assuredly directed towards keeping her out off his room.

"I guess I shan't be offering you tea," Minerva decided.

With a complete lack of her usual finesse, Minerva collapsed into her chair. She put her hands over her face and wished for the Patience of Job, the Wisdom of Solomon, the Common Sense of her Great Aunt Tillie, and while she was wishing for the impossible, she'd love to have the body of Venus de Milo.

"Sweet Lord, he knows," she whispered. "He knows."

**-o-0-o-**

He had been struggling to be a proper gent, but his bloody eye that Barty the Bastard had buggered up had decided it wanted to a gander at Minerva's titties. Nothing as decorous as an admiring glance, or a slightly risqué gander where the buxom beauties would be shyly peeking out of their silk and lace unmentionables… no… it had gone directly to the sight of her naked skin and she bloody had a thistle tat on her right breast. And there was a large Scottish Lion on the small of her back and… bloody hell, she and… Barty Crouch… THEY HAD! _**Nightly**_ … for _**nigh near nine months**_.

While he had been in a bloody trunk _**for nine months**_.

He was overwhelmed with a sick desire to show her what the real Alastor could do. Completely understandable, because he had dealt with Barty's Minerva, he had even created a pretend Minerva that he imagined he bedded frequently and now, he was face to face to the real Minerva. And he wanted nothing more than to… He wanted her so damn bad because he needed physical closeness.

For Minerva's sanity, safety and her virtue, Alastor Moody barricaded himself into his rooms, successfully sealing himself off from her. Nothing, not even an owl, could get in, and no one could get out of the room until tomorrow morning. He had a lot he had to process, and he'd hopefully be able to walk until he fell asleep.

It was a wonderful plan, until he realized one small problem. He hadn't had a bite all day and thanks to his bloody dick, he wouldn't be eating until tomorrow.

Steadily, he put one foot in front of the other, pacing the night away. Whether to regain his emotional equilibrium or just exhaust himself into a dreamless slumber, Alastor couldn't say.

After far too long, he closed his eyes and slid down the wall, bracing his back against the corner. Best to sleep in the corner of the room, so one had two walls to your back. Roughly, he took off his fake leg, the cramped muscles protesting against their overuse after so many months of inactivity. Deliberately, Alastor massaged his painful leg, all the way from the bone deep aching stump up to his hip. He worked out the knots in his muscles and eased the cramps.

Without conscious volition, the fierce massaging strokes slowed, became gentler, more teasing. More lover-like. And before long, his hands slipped beneath his waistband.

"Please," he silently mouthed. He kept his eyes closed, to maintain the pretense that it was Minerva who was touching him. "Quick, fast and hard, _**please**_."

She never gave him what he wanted.

It was never quick and rough.

It was always prolonged and delayed, the minx teasing him until he was pleading with her, pleading with Barty, pleading with the fake Alastor that yes, it felt so good, that Minerva felt so goddamn good and to please, please, please… . Rationally, he knew it wasn't _**her**_, it had never been Minerva doing things to him in the darkness that he'd never dare ask a woman to do… yet she had done it all and more, willingly, to Barty.

He had been forced to relieve their memories… was it truly so bad to use her like this? He didn't enjoy Barty's kinks so what he imagined with the faux Minerva was always hopelessly vanilla…

Damn it, what if the real Minerva overheard him? He should stop this, yet his hands wouldn't stop.

"Please," he whispered. "Please don't stop. This is the only time… I feel … anything… Oh God, Minerva… Oh God …. Please… please… Yes… like that… exactly… like that… "

With a muffled cry, he came so bloody hard that he nearly put a hole in the wall.

"Thank you… You were… splendid…" his voice rumbled deep in his chest. He closed his eyes, and he imagined that she was really there; that he was pulling the covers over her… didn't want her to catch a chill… his rough, callused hand was gentle as he played with her unbound hair. "Simply first rate, girl."

As was the norm, the fuzzy post-coital warmth rapidly fled, leaving him emotionally cored and pensive. He was _**out**_ of the bloody trunk, damn it.

Why the hell did he long to be back in it?

Because it was safe in the box, in the darkness.

There were no mirrors so he couldn't see his reflection.

He was beyond bug ugly. He was a freak with far too many facial scars and too few body parts. Yes, let the stupid kiddies think his scars were visible badges of honor. He was goddamn repulsive… and his personality was abrasive… and no one…. No one… not Arthur… not Albus… not even Kingsley Shacklebolt bloody knew the man beneath the scars.

And in the darkness, he could pretend that he was the lucky Moody that Minerva had decided to dally with. That someone had decided that there was something worthy in Alastor Moody that made putting up with him a joy rather than a chore.

But in the light, he knew that he wasn't that man. That somehow _**Junior**_ had managed to woo Minerva McGonagall into a long-term relationship.

The woman Alastor had known for nigh near thirty bloody years. The same woman who had never expressed an interest in his carcass, even before he had accidentally mislaid an eye, a knee and the tip of his nose. Before the LeStranges had thought to carve a dark rune in his bloody face. Before Albus had turned him into a bear cub in front of his students.

Her lack of interest in him, the real Alastor, should have galled him more.

It should hurt his pride more.

The old Alastor would have already confronted Minerva about her repeated dallying with Barty's Crotch and demanded an explanation. The new Alastor, stripped of his dignity, stripped of his foolish notions, didn't need to know why Minerva had decided to dally with Barty's Moody rather than the real Moody.

Because the real Moody was the type of man who'd get overpowered by two punks and stuck in a box for nine months.

And not a goddamn soul would notice! Because he was a goddamn fortress with walls no one thought it worth the effort to breach.

Because he was a disgusting, perverted crip who could only bang one out by having sick fantasies of a woman who didn't deserve to be used that way.

"I'm hollow," he whispered. "A tin soldier dented beyond mending. Throw me in the fire, Albus, and let us be done with the charade known as my life."

And for the first time in far too long, Alastor Moody wept.

**-o-0-o-**

After a few hours of Alastor wearing a hole in her floor by dragging his leg on the floor, there was silence. To Minerva's horror, she was so focused on what had happened between her and Barty Crouch, Junior on a certain December night that she had just been grateful for the quiet.

Had he fallen?

If it was anyone else, she'd go in wands a blazing, however recent events suggested that action would cause Alastor to jump to the defense. Best find out if he needed help first. Minerva twisted and shifted and before long a little grey tabby with spectacle markings appeared in her place. She needed a good stretch so she flexed before flicking her paws.

That done, she bounded over to the closed door and crept as close as she could to the door jam. Her sensitive cat ears twitched and pivoted as she strained to hear the very soft sounds.

If felines blushed, at that moment she'd be a blushing silver tabby.

Oh dear God, Alastor Moody… he was not doing what it sounded like. He was _**not**_… bloody hell, he _**was! **_

_**Alastor Moody was**_ _**banging out one**_ _**and pretending it was HER**_.

Her wry bemusement turned to an angry mortification when she realized that he was pleading with _**her**_… beseeching _**Barty**_… fawning over how good she felt… how good she was… but to please stop teasing him….

_**What the bloody hell did Barty do to Alastor? He must have informed Alastor about the Yule Ball where I made a rather colossal mistake. But Alastor is asking Barty to please stop.**_

_**Dear God, Barty didn't inflict **__**THAT**__** on Alastor? **_

_**He didn't force Alastor to… did he? And yet Alastor's pleading with me … **_

_**How the hell am I supposed to deal with this? How do I make it all better?**_

He sharply inhaled at his pinnacle and then he slowly exhaled.

To Minerva's surprise, he _**thanked**_ her. Well, the not-real her but the imaginary her. Rumbled his appreciation and about how she was so bloody first rate.

_**Barty-Alastor**_ _**didn't act like that after our fling. He acted like a nineteen year old boy face to face with a naked woman for the first time. All his hormones, all his needs…**_

_**I should have realized that it wasn't Alastor in Alastor's bed. Because he didn't act like the Alastor I knew. **_

_**The one that had picked up Neville so carefully after Frank and Alice were hurt. **_

_**The only one that could rock Neville to sleep those first few nights, the only one audacious enough to perform the Obliviate spell on young Neville so he'd forget seeing his parents Crucioed. In direct contradiction of Augusta's expressed desires. She wanted Neville to always remember so he'd revenge his parents. Alastor wanted to give Neville as normal a life as possible, because he knew Alice and Frank would want that. Though he admitted that he knew that wish was doomed, what with Augusta, Algie and Enid.**_

Silence, then he muttered something and even with her tabby ears, she couldn't hear what he said. But after being a teacher at a boarding school for so long, she recognized the tell-tale sounds of someone trying to muffle their sobbing.

It was her uncertainty on how to proceed, that's what stopped her from changing back to her Minerva Form and then knocking on his door.

Not her cowardice.


	2. Chapter 2

**For the Minerva Fest - **  
**Prompt Author:** Requested by Kelly Chambliss ~ written by Sel  
**Prompt**: How do Moody and Minerva deal with the fact that during the GoF year, she did not realize that he'd been replaced by an impostor? Their past relationship can be whatever you like: at school together, friends from the early Order days, lovers, enemies, etc.  
**Summary:** Minerva hopes that Alastor will never know exactly what Minerva McGonagall did with Barty while the real Alastor was in the trunk.  
**Warnings:** possibly DubCon depending on your definition of informed sexual consent. No rape.  
**Disclaimer:** "Harry Potter" belongs to J.K. Rowling and her legal licensees.  
**Author's Notes**: T

Thank you to the Letters Kelly, Terri and Lyndsey and T for their editing, auditing and suggestions.

**-o-0-o-**

The next morning started off with a bang.

Well, actually, two bangs, two hysterical House Elves and Alastor Moody. And an exhausted Minerva McGonagall was ill-equipped to handle this crisis. She had owl'd Albus requesting assistance with Alastor, deliberately leaving it vague, and then had only gotten to sleep in the wee hours of the morning.

She had completely forgotten to warn Alastor that her personal Hogwarts House Elves, Jaime and Kezi would be joining them for a bit of a holiday. Not that House Elves ever really took a holiday, but Minerva had never made her peace with the entire House Elf institution. So she bent the rules as much as she could, and as far as her House Elves would permit.

If she was on vacation, her House Elves needed to be there, just in case she needed them. It was a feeble hope that perhaps a change of scenery might prove to be a bit of a vacation. Plus, she didn't want Argus working them to death while she was on holiday. And if Jaime and Kezi's children occasionally joyfully splashed in the Clachtoll Bay, then by God, it was a true House Elf holiday, even if Jaime and Kezi insisted on being hopelessly underfoot and helpful.

It wasn't good. It really wasn't good as Kezi was tightly embracing her husband, and Jaime looked frightened. Alastor… well… Alastor didn't have his wand out, but both Kezi and Jaime knew damn well Alastor Moody was dangerous. Especially before his first pot of tea in the morning.

"Mistress?" Jaime squeaked.

"Alastor Horatio Moody, this is Jaime and Kezi. They are my House Elves when I'm at Hogwarts. I asked them to come join me for the holiday. I'm afraid it completely slipped my mind and I didn't warn you."

Then her Wards alarmed and Alastor went into full defense mode. Or complete meltdown. Which one is was, Minerva couldn't have told you above the sounds of terrified House Elves, but fortunately Whoever Had Decided to Come a Visiting knew Alastor pretty darn well.

"Alastor – It is I," said a slow, deep voice.

"And me!" another voice piped in.

Albus had sent the promised reinforcements. Foolishly, Minerva had hoped for ALBUS, instead she had gotten Kingsley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks. She had faith in Shacklebolt but Tonks? If she had only been forewarned, she would have put away all the McGonagall valuables.

First she needed to medicate Jaime and Keki with Scottish Chocolate.

**-o-0-o-**

"How do I know it's you?" Alastor questioned.

Kingsley Shacklebolt nodded his head in acknowledgement of the reality of Alastor's fears. "I could tell you it's me, but that wouldn't prove anything. Let me tell you something that only you and I would know."

An edgy Alastor Moody was backed into a corner of the room, quite close to fighting his way out.

"And that would be?" Alastor prompted. His tone was quiet, dangerously quiet, the way the old Alastor Moody got just before he went all out, wand a blazing.

"I found you," Kinglsey's voice slowed and stopped. "After… what happened… I found you… I magically bound your leg as you were bleeding out. You had self-cauterized the wound, but it was still leaking."

"That's a well known story. Even the Quibbler got that right. You need to tell me more."

Kingsley swallowed once and nodded his head.

"I… found them…I captured them… and then you and I are the only people that know what happen next. And now Tonks and Minerva will also know this tawdry tale. I _**Cruciated**_ them," Stately, regal Kinglsey's voice broke. "I Cruciated them until they were screaming for mercy and it didn't stop me. I Cruciated them for you, for Frank and Alice… and…when my sanity returned, I was so ashamed. I spoke to you while you were sleeping, told you the entire sordid story and I told I was resigning. Because even though they were allowing us to use the Unforgiveables, you had never stooped to that level. As your trainee, by Cruciating them, I had turned my back on everything you have ever taught me."

Kingsley then smiled in fond remembrance.

"You clubbed me on my ear, called me a daft prat and ordered me to get my lazy, whinging arse back to work. I'm Kingsley, Alastor."

"That you are," Alastor agreed. "But I'm still not sure about her. Just because her hair's pink, doesn't mean it's really Tonks."

Nymphadora Tonks shook her head at Alastor's stubbornness. "Very well, it is a little known fact that Alastor Moody _**requested**_ me as his trainee. The official reason for Alastor Moody's first ever request for a trainee was because I was a metamorphagus and he believed that I needed to be trained by the gest. The truth of the matter was that Mad Eye requested to train me was because he didn't trust me. He was afraid that my Black Blood would bleed true. You bloody prat, it's _**me**_!"

"You _**knew**_?" A horrified Alastor asked.

"Yes, I _**knew**_! For the first year, I lived in constant fear that you'd declare me too Black!"

She surprised him by hugging Alastor tightly. Then she pulled his face down to her height and kissed him. Then hugged the startled Alastor again.

"Let's leave them alone for a bit," Kingsley whispered. In a louder voice, he announced that he'd be assisting Minerva in preparing a proper fry. "Minerva, I insist on helping you make breakfast since we frightened your House Elves. And Alastor, don't you even try to protest. You're _**not**_ cooking breakfast."

**-o-0-o-**

"Is it a good idea?" Minerva asked Kingsley. She wasn't asking about the breakfast, but leaving a wand-shy Alastor with the Burning Phoenix in a Wand Shop Nymphadora Tonks.

"To leave Alastor and Tonks together, yes. Hopefully, she can Read him." Kingsley then expertly broke an egg. "Bit of a rogue talent. She can view auras. Sometimes. Not always, but it's our best bet to find out what's happening with Alastor. Especially as we discovered her little talent after he retired so I don't think he's aware of it. I believe I know the answer but let me ask, what has he told you?"

"Nothing," was Minerva's quick response. Deliberately, she ignored Jaime's attempts at weaseling in and assisting in making breakfast.

"He admits to being repeatedly Cruciated besides being Imperiod. I reviewed what intelligence we had on Barty. A lot of it had been destroyed… mysteriously… after he supposedly died in Azkaban. The little I saw makes me fear what Alastor isn't revealing as bluntly, Barty was a sick bugger. The Ministry wished to keep Alastor in St. Mungo's for a spell but Albus insisted that he would heal faster away from there. Has Moody stepped outside of the cottage?" was the next question.

"No," she admitted.

"Not even to look at the view?" Kingsley cracked another egg before continuing. "He was born and raised near Muir Éireann and he claims he has salt water in his veins. That's why Albus sent him with you, because Albus believed that he'd be more comfortable here. On the rare times he's actually taken a holiday, he's usually seaside."

"No," was her regretful response. "He tested my wards, then went to bed. I didn't think anything of it because it was a long day."

There was the seemingly obligatory crash and Minerva instinctively winced. What had Tonks destroyed now?

**-o-0-o-**

Nymphadora Tonks was deemed to be a light-weight Auror, flighty, not serious enough for her position, and an all-in-all not a particularly fearsome foe.

Then there was the man who knew her. The man who had trained her, who had advised her to take those very same attributes and run with them because it made her a very dangerous Auror.

"Better to be under-estimated rather than over," he was fond of saying.

And now Tonks and Moody were in Minerva's sitting room, both pretending that this was merely a social call instead of an inquisition. Finally, the older Auror's shaky nerves broke and he leaned towards Dora. If he asked the questions, he'd still be the one in control. That's what he prayed.

"What do you see when you look at me?" His tone was terse, his eyes intense. "I know you _**can**_ Read and that's why you're here. What do you see? Who will you tell of your Reading? The Ministry?"

"Mad-Eye, Albus sent me here. We're all worried about you," Tonks explained. "I won't tell the Ministry anything."

He barked a dry laugh.

"I was in a trunk for nine months, Tonks. It was a lovely vacation, I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to send you a postcard," insisted Alastor. "I feel quite well rested after doing nothing for that long. Now, tell me what you are Reading."

"It's not how it works. It comes, it goes, the talent is very balky," was her reply. "I may not even be able to Read you."

"You are a horrible liar, Nymphadora. I've told you to work on that," was his retort. "Tell me what you're Reading."

Tentatively, she took his chin in her hand, and she positioned his face just so. Their eyes met and Tonks was the first to look away from his mismatched eyes. It seemed that there was a great deal of truth in that old Auror joke that Moody's fake eye could examine your soul. And Alastor understood what she Viewed before she could process it.

"That bad," Alastor whispered. "It's _**that**_ bad."

She didn't answer; instead she roughly rubbed her tearing eyes with the back of her hand.

**-o-0-o-**

"What broke?" Minerva asked when a weary looking Alastor and a serious-looking Tonks joined them for breakfast.

"I did it," was Alastor's quick response. "Stretched my bum leg and knocked over a vase. It's all fixed."

Minerva thought it best to leave it like that, even though she knew that Tonks had been responsible.

"Never you mind the vase," she declared. "Let us eat."

"I made your favorites," Kingsley insisted. "So Tonks, tell me, did the old rascal do to you what he did to me? When I was his intern, he made me do _**all**_ the cooking. Plus the dishes… _**by hand**_. For the full three bloody years."

"My cooking lasted not even a fortnight," was Tonks' easy answer. "And I only did the dishes by hand the first night."

The two Aurors kept the tone of the meal light and gossipy while Alastor was content to let them talk. Instead, he concentrated on his breakfast, slowly savoring each bite. He sat in the corner of the room, his back against a wall, deliberately flanked by Kingsley and Tonks. And he had lit a candle even though the sun was shining brightly through the window. As though afraid that the sun would suddenly be extinguished, leaving him in darkness.

Definitely, he was acting odd. Well, odder than the norm for Alastor. Rather than being his usual boisterous, cantankerous self, he seemed solely focused on his food, eating methodically. After the final bite of Lorne sausage chased down by a long swallow of tea, he put down his fork and spoke for the first time since they had sat down for breakkie.

"Kingsley, best damn meal I've had in the last year," Alastor rumbled.

Perhaps, it was a feeble attempt at a joke, but it failed miserably as everyone's mind immediately went to Alastor' trunk. Tonks blanched and her formerly bubblegum hair went funeral-black while Kingsley winced as though he had been kicked in the 'nads.

"I mean it as a compliment; you're a fine cook, Kingsley. Unlike Nymphadora…"

Alastor paused, as though waiting for Tonks to jump in with her usual protestation against her real name. She said not a word, so he continued.

"…Who can't cook a smidgeon. Only person I know that burned the toast two weeks straight. She charred both sides!"

He looked around, saw that Tonks was in tears, and even Kingsley had his head bowed.

"It wasn't that bad," Alastor futilely protested. "He fed and watered me regularly as he needed me hale and hearty. I even got Christmas pudding after the Yule Ball. For some reason, he was in a good mood, and he gave me a bellyful of leftovers. All in all, it was probably far more relaxing than teaching a bunch of hormonal teenagers. They're too busy wanking off to worry about how to survive."

He grimaced, and then shook his head.

"I'm too knackered to be polite," growled Alastor. "I think I'm not quite ready for company yet. Next time, you feel like visiting the infirm, ask first."

He fought to stand under his own power, yet only a quick assist by Kingsley kept his upright.

"Bastard buggered up my eye, and he buggered up my leg!" He roared that, and then with an obvious effort to be polite, Alastor swallowed his pride. He spoke in a softer tone, "Thank you for the assist, Kingsley. Now, would you mind helping an old man to bed?"

Kingsley nodded and it was painful to Minerva to watch Alastor struggle to his bedroom. Tonks watched the two men leave the kitchen and then she sighed.

"He's doing the argy-bargy Alastor act," she advised Minerva. "He's performing that way because he thinks that we expect it."

Minerva said not a word; because she was too busy focusing on Alastor's comment of _'__I even got Christmas pudding after the Yule Ball. For some reason, he was in a good mood, and he gave me a bellyful of leftovers'._

She knew damn well why Barty had been in such a good humor.

"Minerva," Tonks continued. Her voice was quite slow. "Alastor was scrutinizing you during the entire meal. He barely looked at me, and he occasionally glanced at Kingsley, but he was staring at you."

"I thought he was gawping at the rashers on his plate," Minerva protested. Yes, the few times she had looked at him, Alastor had been intent on his plate.

"He trained me, and I know how to observe someone without them noticing. He watched you. Not the rashers, not the Lorne sausage, he was staring at you. And I noticed that you didn't look at him as frequently." Tonks paused before continuing, her hair turning an even more shocking shade of pink than was her norm. It matched the complexion of her face, Minerva noted in horrified fascination. "How well do you know Alastor?"

Minerva arched one expressive and thoroughly intimidating eyebrow. The slightest arch of her eyebrow had demoralized Draco Malfoy on more than one occasion but did not suppress Nymphadora Tonks. However, the legendary arched eyebrow of McGonagall disapproval did cause Tonks to flounder about for a bit.

"He's been… severely traumatized… by what happened." The young Auror flushed when she realized how inane she sounded.

"Most people would not be sane after being in a large trunk for nine months," snapped Minerva.

The young Auror couldn't believe that she was about to broach this particular and rather sensitive subject with _Professor McGonagall. _ Yes, Tonks had been calling her Minerva since she graduated, but that damn eyebrow had brought back her Hogwarts-era fear of upsetting the formidable Professor McGonagall. Firmly warning herself to put on her big girl pants, Tonks bravely continued. It was for Alastor after all. "I'm just suggesting that if you two were involved before this happened, Alastor seems to be desperately looking for a sign from you."

That opinion expressed, Tonks took a long sip of her tea.

"A sign?" Minerva repeated. She kept her demeanor composed. "Alastor and I were not, as you delicately phrased, _**involved**_. We were, and still are, friends. Friends _**without**_ benefits."

Minerva firmly nodded her head.

"Minerva, I'm sorry. I Viewed Alastor's aura, and his soul is festering with self-doubt. He's always been bold as brass, but not now. Combined with the fact that he kept watching you during breakfast as though he wanted reassurance from you, I mistakenly assumed that you two had been lovers. Alastor is searching for something. I don't know what it is, but he's gone all hollow, Minerva. "

Minerva nodded her head and kept quiet.

"Alastor's also seems a bit agoraphobic. He wouldn't step on the porch," Tonks continued. "He insisted on staying in the room."

She seemed to be making a habit of nodding her head, Minerva realized as her head nodded once more.

In time, both Kingsley and Tonks were on their way and Alastor was asleep in his bedroom. Minerva spoke with her (thankfully) much calmer House Elves and requested that they keep a discrete eye on Alastor.

That accomplished, she then decided that she needed to hide in plain sight on the porch, overlooking the bay. Least she didn't have to fear that Alastor would look for her there.

Staring at the bay for hours, even though she knew damn well that she needed to talk to Alastor. The problem was she was having extreme difficulty explaining what had happened … to herself.

**-o-0-o-**

_Yule Ball. Minerva had long accepted that it was just another excuse for the Hormonal Hogwarts students to run wild. And the teachers too. Tonight was no exception. _

_Good Lord, was that really Alastor Moody doing a two step with Aurora Sinistra? Aurora looked frightened near to death, not that Minerva could blame her. Where had Alastor pulled the kilt out from? And why was he wearing a dead white ferret as part of his sporran? Was he merely being contrary or was he warning a certain young Malfoy?_

_The music stopped, Aurora ran for the hills and Alastor thumped after her. Minerva stepped in front of the Defence teacher and she shook her head in mock disapproval. _

"_Really, Alastor, isn't Aurora a wee bit young for you?" _

_His gruesome face split in a terrifying smile._

"_Jealous, are we?" Moody barked a rough laugh. _

"_As I grow __older__ and __older__, And totter towards the tomb, I find that I care less and less Who goes to bed with whom." She poked him in his chest and explained further. "Dorothy Sayers."_

"_Songs sound sweeter on the older fiddles. And I find as I've gotten older, that I can get away with flirting. They consider me harmless," he growled._

"_You? Harmless!" Minerva broke out in a peal of laughter._

"_Minerva, we've known each other for far too long. How come we never…" Alastor asked. He gave her a long, speculative glance. "Did my handsomeness cause you to worry about the competition?"_

_Minerva paused, and then returned the long, speculative glance. "You're drunk."_

"_On your beauty, lass," he said._

_That earned him a snort of derision, but then he asked again, why she had never given him a chance. There was earnestness beneath his jocularity. And Minerva wondered, seriously, about the very unlikely pairing of Minerva McGonagall and Alastor Moody. Perhaps, tonight of all nights, she could play for once. Alastor was a trusted friend. _

"_If you must know, you never asked," Minerva explained. "You never seemed the least bit interested in me. And friends are hard to find."_

"_I was most assuredly interested, but I just assumed that you being a proper sort would never dally with a rapscallion like me. Still am interested," was his surprising retort._

"_You stuck your tongue out and made grotesque faces at me when I chastised you about turning Draco Malfoy into an albino ferret. Is that how you tell someone you're interested?" Minerva asked. She kept her tone dry but Alastor's real eye seemed amused._

"_No boy ever pulled on your pigtail when you were younger? Dipped the tip of it into their ink?"_

_And they had bantered back and forth until Minerva had rather willingly gone to his bed. To her disappointment, Alastor had been rather bungling and well… completely inept… with her body. She hadn't gotten her orgasm, but he had gotten his. Twice, as a sympathetic Minerva had thought that perhaps his injuries prevented him from physically satisfying her. _

_Then he had rolled over and fallen asleep. Snoring to wake the dead. _

_No talking, no cuddling, nothing._

_Leaving her feeling used and degraded. _

_And while he had snored, she had fled the scene. _

_The next day, he had angled for a repeat. She had succeeded in avoiding him until he had confronted her on New Year's Day. He had been crude and brusque with her. And they hadn't really spoken since that day, though they had kept up the pretense of being friendly co-workers in front of Albus._

_But there had been the soul chilling moments, where he had given her an openly appraising look and __**smiled**__. _

Bartemius Crouch, Junior.

There had always been something 'off' about that boy.

Something fetid beneath Barty's surface that had severely unsettled Minerva. Stellar marks in all his subjects and he had desired to become an Auror. Well, perhaps his father had wanted it more as she had noticed the lack of the burning spark for justice that defined the truly exceptionable Aurors.

Like Alastor.

Again, her mind wandered back to the man in the bedroom.

Severely chastising herself, Minerva again focused on Barty Crouch, Junior.

As tradition demanded, each Hogwarts instructor had been interviewed regarding an Auror applicant. The eagle-eyed, perceptive Filius had also been uneasy about recommending Barty and the two of them had discussed it at length. Their caginess on the issue had influenced Pomona into not endorsing him. When Horace had abstained from voting, claiming some arcane tradition about all House Heads speaking as one on a possible candidate, Albus had also not endorsed his candidacy.

Barty Junior had blamed his former House Head, Minerva McGonagall, for his rejection.

And Alastor Moody had been the one to capture Barty Junior.

An Alastor Moody who had been imprisoned in his trunk for nine months, who had been given a treat after the bloody Yule Ball. The same man who now refused to look her in the eyes and the man who knew bloody full well about Barty and her.

_Barty's openly appraising look and __**smile**__. _

Alastor who was looking for answers from her but too bloody nervy to ask.

With a flash of insight, Minerva realized exactly why Barty as Alastor had shagged her. Not only for retribution against her for her supposed slights, but as a way of torturing Alastor Moody.

"_Please," he whispered. "Please don't stop. This is the only time… I feel … anything… Oh God, Minerva… Oh God …. Please… please… Yes… like that… exactly… like that… "_

She desperately needed a shower.

Or a dip in the bay.

**-o-0-o-**

It was almost time for the main meal and Alastor was still locked in his room. To have her house guest die of mortification induced starvation would never do, so Minerva asked Jaime to set up for a light meal on the terrace overlooking the water. By God, she was seaside for her summer holiday and she wanted to see the bay. And if Alastor truly had salt water running in his veins, well, perhaps the sea breeze would lighten his heart.

Plus he needed to be reminded that he was no longer in the damn trunk.

Meal decided upon, how should she be dressed was the next big question.

While it was tempting to armor herself in the proverbial spinster boarding school professor garb, Minerva wasn't sure how Alastor would react. Would it be easier for him? Would it be a constant goad how she felt uncomfortable in his presence? If she dressed as she normally did on holiday, would that make him uncomfortable? She wasn't planning on prancing around in her swimming costume, but she wanted to be physically comfortable for this awkward conversation. Short sleeves, a bit of skin showing… would that be too much for Alastor?

Yet physical comfort was paramount and she decided to take down her hair, twisting it into a long, loose braid. She longingly thought about her comfortable sundress, but decided that it might show too much skin. Therefore Minerva went to her standby, wide-legged linen pants and a buttoned shirt with respectful sleeves.

She knocked on Alastor's closed door and enunciated clearly, in order to keep her swelling panic at bay. "Alastor, we will be eating in the terrace. I anticipate that you will be joining me in fifteen minutes."

There was a sound of an avalanche rumbling which she took to be an affirmative response, and then Minerva strategically retreated to the terrace. She pretended to focus on the water, watching the ripples and currents. Yet Minerva was fully aware that it took Alastor a good ten minutes to convince himself to step outside.

"Good evening, Alastor. I hope you don't mind that I decided to eat outside tonight. There's a slight breeze coming off the bay," she explained.

He rumbled a response, and he sat down heavily. Deliberately, she had placed his seat to ensure that his back was against the wall, to give him a feeling of safety. They ate their meal mainly in silence broken with feeble attempts to chat about safe subjects such as Quidditch and the weather.

Dinner done, Alastor attempted his escape but she held out her hand to bar his flight.

"Alastor, we must talk," Minerva softly stated.

Moody shook his head in tired protest. "There's _**nothing**_ that needs to be said, Minerva."

God, why was this so difficult? Harder than the first time she had Transfigured back to her Minerva form from her cat-self.

Well, least this time she wouldn't have to worry about sprouting whiskers.

"There is," protested Minerva. "We must discuss this, Alastor. Please, Alastor, I have to confess… I need to explain…"

She couldn't continue and Alastor reached for her hand. Almost touching it, but not.

"There is nothing you need to confess to me, lass. I know about you and young Barty," Alastor advised her. His voice was surprisingly soft and free from the condemnation she had feared. Yet he still refused to look at her. "I don't require an explanation, Minerva. Most importantly, you do _**not**_ owe me one."

"I feared you knew," she answered. "How did you find out?"

"From him," was Alastor's response. "He bragged about it."

Her resolve crumpled and she covered her open mouth with her hand.

Alastor moved closer to her and he kept his voice low. "I swear that I didn't tell anyone. When they asked me about my captivity, I didn't tell them anything about you and Barty. I swear that it will go to my grave, Minerva. I will not tell anyone."

"You must be furious with me," Minerva whispered.

"_**Never**_," he protested.

She was quite close to tears, as Alastor was being so damn understanding.

"You deserve an explanation, you _**must**_ have questions."

A long, drawn out sigh was her only answer. Finally, Alastor spoke. "One question, Minerva. It's up to you if answer it. _Why_?"

"He asked."

"He asked," repeated a stunned Moody.

Silence. The grizzled Auror was still not looking at her; instead he was intently staring at the bay. He swallowed once and then spoke. "I know I said one question but I have another. Again, you can refuse to answer."

Minerva agreed.

It took Alastor some time before he could voice his question, and when he finally spoke, Minerva had to strain to hear him.

"In all the years I have known you, if I had ever asked you to share my bed, would you have?"

The answer came to her easily.

Minerva nodded.

**-o-0-o-**

He avoided her after their conversation. Breakfast the next day was a silent affair, as was lunch. No surprise really given the gravity of what they had discussed, but Minerva could sense his eyes on her.

She never caught him looking at her, but she could feel his glances.

But their conversation of the previous day had an unexpected and strangely positive consequence. While she had commandeered the sitting room and Jaime and Keki were industriously cleaning his room by hand (not magic, as well House Elves thought that doing things by hand made for a lovely holiday), he went outside. He sat on a boulder and began stone skiffing, casting stones at the water, watching them bounce.

Minerva spied upon him and decided that he'd quickly run out of suitable skiffable stones. Therefore she left her cottage, and picked up several candidates.

His shoulders tensed as she came closer, but he continued to throw. He grimaced when his last toss entered the water with a loud glunk and immediately sunk.

She sat next to him on the boulder and handed him a flat stone, suitable for skimming.

"Are we still friends, Alastor?" It was a simple question. An equitable trade if you would, a stone for an answer.

He didn't answer, instead he threw the rock at the water, watched it skip across the water until it sank.

"I don't know," he finally admitted. His flat tone was final. "We're not easy with each other… so how y can we be friends?"

"Alastor." Minerva paused, wishing she knew what to say to make everything better. "I'm unbelievably sorry. It's my fault you were in that trunk… "

"There's no need. It's not your mistake that caused me to end up in that the trunk. You didn't put me in it. If anything, I must ask for your forgiveness," was his surprising response.

"I beg your pardon? Did I hear you correctly?" was Minerva's not very sharp reply.

The grizzled Auror nodded and then aimed a few more rocks at the water. His trajectory was off and the stones didn't so much skip as ricochet.

"You and your Alastor…you were quite close to him, far closer than you and I have ever been. And then I pop out of the box, very much not the man you've been bedding for the last six months yet still knowing every sordid little detail. This is embarrassing for you. "

Simply said, with little, if any, emotion.

"Alastor, I only slept with him the _**once**_," protested Minerva.

"Minerva, you don't need to lie. How many times must I tell you that I know about you and Barty. He made me relive every single time you two were together…" Again, Alastor's demeanor was impassive. As though he was discussing the weather.

Minerva poked her finger into Alastor's chest. "Once. _**ONCE**_. ONE TIME ONLY and it wasn't even that good!"

Alastor took her hand away from his chest, holding it so she was no longer prodding him.

"I told you that I won't tell anyone. I know it was more than once." Again, the level tone. But Minerva could hear Alastor's faint condescension that Minerva had the nerve to lie to him.

"Alastor, it happened _**ONCE**_," Minerva vainly protested. She ripped her hand free from his.

There was a spark in his good eye, an anger that he was trying his hardest to smother.

"It was the longest once I've ever witnessed. Once lasted for months, had scene changes and even changed your clothes more than a few times, Minerva. Least what I saw of your clothes," Alastor protested. "Your smiling. The grinning, that was constant."

"Alastor, it _**didn't happen**_." Why was the man being so damn stubborn?

Alastor Moody gave up all pretenses of being calm and stood up to face her. Being face to face with a truly enraged Alastor was a tad bit scary, Minerva admitted. But she'd only admit that to herself.

"Like bloody hell it _**didn't**_ happen. I _**saw**_, every goddamn time he came to feed me in that damn trunk; he'd share your latest escapades. In time, it got to be just him, the constant darkness and you two buggering each other. I _**lived**_ it!" Alastor's voice was a roar. "I _**saw**_ it! I _**know**_ what you did and I can't understand why you don't just _**admit**_ it!"

Alastor Moody was beyond furious. But Minerva could sense that his anger was mainly directed towards himself. She needed to diffuse the situation and do so carefully.

"Alastor, when you stop acting like a stroppy bull, we will continue this discussion. I can understand why you're angry, but do not take it out on me. You _**know**_ that I'm telling you the truth."

Moody's anger faded as quickly as it had flared. His face was ashen, his shoulders slumped.

"I'm having difficulties…" He paused for a bit. "Accepting the truth in your words… and what I've lived through. While you have always been frank and candid in our dealings, I wish for nothing more than to avoid this confession. It is hard for me to confess this… I'm not able to easily figure out what's the Real Minerva and what's Barty's Minerva."

"My good God, I fear to ask what you must think of me." Minerva protested.

"And recent events… have put a new spin. After what happened, I was forced to face Barty's Minerva. To cope with that, I created my own version of Barty's Minerva… neither of which is the real Minerva. I just don't know if we can be friends again."

"Alastor!" Minerva protested. "Yes, we're still friends."

"I am _**not**_ comfortable around you," was his soft admission. "And I'm taking my anger out on you, which is not deserved. It's not your fault that a duo of wet-behind the ears Death Eaters took me out. It's certainly not your fault that nobody knows me well enough to know when I'm replaced by Barty. I would have thought Albus and Kingsley… even Tonks… plus I'm sorrowing over the loss of what never existed between us. To think, all these years, I could have had you in my bed … if I had only thought to ask."

A stunned Minerva could only close her mouth.

"I'm just a tired old crip that will be no good for Albus in this upcoming war."

Alastor found another rock and threw it, watching it skip across the water.

"And did your Minerva help you cope?" Minerva softly questioned.

"Lovely lass. Still, she was just another face of madness, just slightly more pleasing than the others," Alastor finally confessed.

His smile was twisted and self-mocking, so Minerva marched over to Alastor. Hugged him until she felt him respond. Not in _**that**_ way, but still Alastor put his arms around her and embraced her tightly. He seemed willing to crush her, he was holding on to her so very tightly. Then to her surprise, he gently kissed the top of her head, all the while still embracing her. Really, they were an ideal fit as her head fit perfectly between his shoulder and his neck.

Alastor's buzz to the top of her head was distinctively post-coital-like to Minerva and an alarmed Alastor tensed when he realized it. Yet Minerva continued to squeeze him.

"I can't be doing this," he protested.

"Yes, you can. Just let me hug you, Alastor. You were in that damn trunk for far too long. We _**were**_ friends and we still _**are**_ friends."

Finally, he relaxed into her embrace and only then did she stop hugging him. Instead, she clasped his upper arms and stared intently into both eyes.

"There will be no more maudlin outbursts from you. Albus relies highly on you." Mineva informed him. "We'll work through your problem, Alastor."

"Problems," was his retort, deliberately stressing the _**s**_. "When I first wake up, before I remember where I am, I fear that I'm back in the trunk….And I'm scared…. So scared of another day of darkness…"

"You're out of the trunk, Alastor," Minerva inserted.

"And I don't know what to do about you. I'm not silver-tongued like Kingsley, so I fear I will be blunt and shock your delicate sensibilities. I know if I tell you how I feel; it will make things awkward between us. Yet, I can't lie to you. Minerva, I find myself … wanting … you," Alastor admitted. "In my bed."

Her face was crimson; Minerva knew it – if the heat she was radiating was any indication. Try as she might, she couldn't help but remember how she had overheard Alastor earlier.

Alastor's voice was soft and his Irish accent was heavy when he continued, "And I'm not sure if it's because of what Barty did to me… or… what I did to you… or because you're a remarkable woman…. And I have been forced to face the ugly truth; that I am a hollow, empty man… who wonders what it would be like to have someone like you in his life… Ah, lass, I've embarrassed you, I didn't mean to."

Again, the self-mocking grimace before he continued, "Or it might be the unholy fascination I have for that lone, rebellious lock of yours which insists on escaping from your braid. Makes me wonder what else you are hiding from me."

With gentle fingers, he tucked the mutinous strand behind her ear. For just a moment, he was the Alastor of yore, with a very satisfied smirk on his face, delighted in having flustered his opponent. Then the façade faded and in its place, was the Alastor of today. The Moody of the downcast eyes, slumped shoulders and defeated mien.

His dejection made her decision easier. Not that she ever truly doubted what her decision would be. However knowing herself as well as she did, Minerva would have procrastinated bedding Alastor until late August.

But for the life of her, Minerva couldn't explain why she was doing this. It wasn't pity, yet what she was feeling more sympathy than desire. Perhaps she just wanted to excise Barty's touch from her skin. And it wasn't her smartest decision as Alastor was far too needy right now. Not just for physical comfort, but for emotional reassurance. Yet both of them had their own wounds from Barty, perhaps they could heal together.

"I'll Floo call Kingsley," Alastor growled. "Perhaps, I can stay in his flat. I put up with his snoring for years when he was my trainee; it's time he paid me back."

"Alastor, I don't remember telling you to pack your … bags… and leave." For a terrible moment, she had almost slipped and said "trunk".

"I'm putting you in a very uncomfortable position," the broken Alastor reminded her.

"You've just told me that you think I'm desirable. Most women find that flattering," she informed him. "However, I deem that asking you if you have a preference for the left or the right side of the bed is a wee bit premature. Best if we slowly and carefully felt our way through this."

"I know what I'd like to feel," muttered Alastor.

Bloody hell, she was blushing again. At her age! It was just that Alastor was looking _**that**_ special way at her, all eager eyed and ardent and how long had it truly been? But damn it, she needed to go slow because of her less than stellar experience with Barty.

But how to phrase it, so to make it seem less of an insult.

"Alastor," she reminded him. "I'm seventy years old."

"Not looking like a day over forty," was his flirtatious rejoinder.

Yes, there were potions and spells she could use, but Minerva preferred having a considerate partner. And a particularly needy Alastor might be too ardent to take his time… and she struggled not to remember Barty, but still she did. It hadn't been particularly painful, but it hadn't been that enjoyable either.

"I'm older, Alastor, and for my physical comfort, we need to take this… _**leisurely**_."

There, she all but wrote it in his Grimoire. In spite of his rough manners, Alastor had been the brightest Ravenclaw of his age; hopefully he'd get the idea.

He blinked and his face turned dark and ugly when he comprehended what she wasn't saying. Then he made an effort to hide his feelings from her. Alastor's voice got soft and sincere, and he leaned down to her.

"Did he hurt you? I was so damn so focused on my own problems, I never asked. "

"It was not very good," confessed Minerva. "He didn't hurt me but he didn't really care about my satisfaction."

His broad hands were on her shoulders and his tone was considerate and tender. "I know I look like a brute, lass, but I'm not. I want you, _**hell yes**_, but I won't force you. We'll take as long as you need and I'll do whatever's necessary. "

Again, he buzzed her on the top of her head.

**-o-0-o-**

Alastor was of a different age than she was, a generation before hers, so when he started courting the younger witch, it took her a few days to realize what he was doing. A fearful Jaime had trimmed his shaggy mane, Keki mended his clothes and he struggled not to clomp through her house with his bad leg thumping like a kettle drum. And he was wearing proper clothes that fit and weren't made of dragon-hide.

And he covered that god ugly fake eye of his with a patch. And Alastor had Transfigured his walking/blasting staff into something more respectable though still something Lucius Malfoy would never have approved. He kept his voice soft and he refused to curse.

They went walking and Alastor asked her about the various plants and trees and whatever, things that Minerva couldn't really care about in the slightest. There were questions about books she had read, places she had visited and various other inquiries.

There were teas, overlooking the bay. Alastor's large hands were incongruous against the delicate china that Jaime insisted upon. Dainty little finger sandwiches at which Alastor _**nibbled**_.

However what disturbed Minerva most was there was a distinct lack of snogging. Considering she had been needlessly worried about Alastor being overly enthused about her carcass, should she be sincerely disappointed that she wasn't pleasantly exhausted from snogging?

"'tis a nice day for a walk," Alastor softly offered over breakfast.

She looked at him, over the rim of her teacup and she pondered at what she saw. His hair was neatly tied back, he was wearing proper clothes and there was a tenseness in his shoulders that caused her own to ache in sympathy. Alastor also had taken to trying to hide the worst of his scars from her. He always sat just so, so she was on the side of his real eye.

_**He's struggling to woo me**_, she realized. _**His belief is that I am the proper sort so he wishes to be that type of man. For me. As though Alastor Moody, the real Alastor Moody, had deemed that he isn't worth a dozen or more of the proper sorts. And the thought is so painful and distressing that I have to look away. Because I'd hate for Alastor to see me weep. Because I don't deserve his high regard, not after keeping him in that trunk.**_

And Alastor looked exhausted. She put her teacup down and with a very gentle touch she put her hand on his face. He flushed at the intimacy, the multitude of old scars white against his discomfort.

"You're knackered." It was a statement. Not a question. "Perhaps you should have a nice lie in today."

"I don't wish to doss off, as I was looking forward to walking with you," he protested.

Minerva unexpectedly realized what their walks truly were. For Alastor, they were also long walks where he'd struggle to make gentlemanly conversation while he ignored how much his leg ached. Because long walks with your lady friend were part of courting.

"You're not sleeping at night." Again, not a question but a bold declaration.

"The last few nights have been a little rough. I wake up … I'm back in the box."

Then she overrode his soft protests over being sent to have a lie in like he was a wee bairn and she escorted him to his bedroom. Alastor's face was expressionless while he watched her pull down the duvet and sheets.

"In you go," Minerva chived.

He grimaced but refrained from bellowing his disgust that he was being treated like a child. Instead, he sat down on the side of the bed and began to pull himself into position.

"You're not getting undressed?" Minerva asked. "Let me help you with your leg at least."

"I can get it, you can go," was his less than successful attempt at being polite. Still, it was far too genteel to be Alastor Moody's norm.

With a flash of insight, Minerva realized that he was nervy about her seeing his stump. It would be best if it was handled in a straight forward manner. Therefore, Minerva sat down next to Alastor on his bed. Deliberately, she put her hand on his shoulder and he turned to face her.

"Alastor, will it be more comfortable for you if you don't wear your prosthesis when we make love? I know your leg is paining you right now as you're limping."

Two nods of his head. Minerva then pushed the issue, even while she then put her hand on his and gently squeezed it.

"Then let me help you with your leg."

He gulped and then shook his head.

"I don't need any help getting it off," Alastor finally said.

_**Well, no, lad, that's obvious from what I heard**_, Minerva thought. She bit her lip even while she firmly chastised herself that she would not laugh. She would not laugh. SHE WOULD _**NOT**_ LAUGH.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, she saw the _**old**_ Alastor. The salty soul who would have easily made that quip. But the new Alastor came to the forefront. The self-doubting Alastor who had been in a trunk for far too long.

"Alastor, you assured me that you'd do anything necessary to help me become comfortable with being intimate with you … and this is part of it."

Long silence, and then a tentative offer. Like he was a small boy hoping to avoid his bedtime by bartering. "Just the leg?"

It would be easy to remind Alastor that she _**knew**_ what Alastor's body looked like. The scars, the burn marks, the jagged bite from the Chimera. The stump of his leg. He wasn't foolishly hoping that when they finally were intimate that she'd let him wear his pyjamas?

Yet she remembered that Alastor viewed her as a _**lady**_, a woman of high values and character. In spite of Barty, Alastor still esteemed her so much that he was nervous about showing her his scars. As he was fearful that she'd do a lady-like swoon or perhaps recoil in disgust. Really, looking at Alastor's reluctance _**that way**_, Minerva wasn't sure if she should laugh or cry.

"Just the leg, Alastor, but you will change into a nightshirt at least. Won't you? So you can sleep? You can't fall asleep if you're wearing your regular clothes."

Again, the slight nod of his head.

"I won't look," Minerva promised.

She kept her eyes closed and she didn't even attempt to sneak a peek. Instead, she concentrated on listening, hearing Alastor's soft inhalation when he placed his leg on the floor, the syncopated beat of his walking, long, short, long, long, real leg, artificial leg and the creak off the bed.

"I'm ready," he announced.

Their eyes met, and finally, Alastor nodded his head in good-natured defeat. Minerva gave him a warm, knowing smile, acknowledging how much it cost him to reach this point.

"Would you mind helping an old man take off his peg leg, lass?"Alastor softly requested.

**-o-0-o-**

A rather discomforted Alastor was perched on the side of the bed, and Minerva gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile. He was wearing a long nightshirt and he had the duvet bunched around his middle.

"You'll have to disconnect the straps," he tersely explained. "It's Charmed on and strapped on."

He pulled up the nightshirt to display his left leg. Carefully he took her hand and placed it on one of the leather straps.

"Straps first," was his soft instruction.

Minerva flinched when she accidentally jarred Alastor's leg while unbuckling the strap. Alastor blanched and then exhaled slowly.

"Did I hurt you?" She asked.

"Slight twinge," was his lie.

Sometimes, it was best to let a wounded soul maintain his pride and dignity, so she let the untruth remain unremarked upon. Two more buckles, thankfully done far more smoothly, and then Alastor whispered the anti-Prothesis sticking spell.

It wasn't any Charm she had ever heard before.

"The regular Charms don't work on it. You can't Transfigure it, you can't Charm it," was his curt explanation.

"Is it Unplottable? Be a might hard to find it after an all night pub crawl," she quipped.

Alastor barked a laugh. It was his first real guffaw in God knew how long. Then his laugh turned into a hiss when she removed his prosthesis. The wool sock covering his stump was moist.

"Alastor!" Truly, did Alastor not realize that he had a blister? Yes, his sock was Charmed to prevent blistering but it did not protect against gallant, mule-headed stupidity.

"Aye," he admitted. "Got a blister."

"You're overdoing it," she chastised him. "Do you wish an infection?"

"Wished to go walking with a pretty lady," was his retort.

"_**Alastor**_," protested Minerva.

"_**Minerva**_," he interrupted her threatened reprimand. Their eyes met and Minerva saw his quiet entreaty to just let the matter lie. "I need to remove the sock and slather on a poultice."

"A poultice?" Minerva repeated. "I can Charm it."

"The poultice is an old family recipe. I'm surprised, you of all people, wanting to use magic for a blister?"

"Let me help you," was her response.

"Minerva, I wear a belt to keep my sock where it's supposed to be."

He wasn't looking at her when he admitted that. And while Minerva hated to admit it, she was beginning to miss the old, crusty Alastor. Not that this diffident, chivalrous beau didn't posses a certain charm. However his reticence just reinforced how badly emotionally scarred he was and how carefully Minerva had to tread.

"I'll leave for a few minutes so you can remove your sock, then I'll come back to help you with your poultice. I have some linen you can use to create the wrap."

**-o-0-o-**

He pulled up his nightshirt, grateful that Minerva had given him some privacy for this. Yes, he was wearing a Y-front under his nightshirt, but still… Minerva was a proper soul. It would be pushing the bounds of propriety to have her help him with this. Alastor unbuckled his waist belt and managed to remove the sock covering his stump. A quick inspection confirmed what he feared.

Bloody hell, he had a blister, which meant he had to stay off of it for a few days. He couldn't use his leg if he wanted to take a quick shufti. Or a long walk with a pretty girl.

Thank God Albus had repeatedly assured Alastor that he was safe here. If he couldn't sense Albus' handiwork in the multiple layers of Wards surrounding Minerva's cottage, he would be utterly terrified at being unable to walk. Not that Alastor couldn't defend himself short a leg and sans wand. After all, he had cauterized his leg with wandless magic on that faithful day.

It was just that recent events had made more aware of his frailty; that he was getting old and slow. Hopefully Minerva never realized how often he checked the wards on her cottage, fearful that they'd start to weaken and decay.

Speaking of slow, right now, he was taking whatever it was that was between Minerva and him as slow as possible, letting her decide how to proceed. Since he had no experience dealing with ladies like Minerva, he was clueless and unable to interpret whatever messages she might be sending him. However, it was important to err on the side of caution, especially as she had been traumatized by Junior.

Fortunately, he had made a new batch of his poultice before he had been 'trunked'. The intricate seal was still intact and when Alastor broke the seal, the poultice smelled of crab apple and comfrey with a trace of slipper elm. So there was no chance that Barty had contaminated it. A slathering of this should have his leg back to rights in next to no time. A Healing Charm would be faster, but there had been so many Charms applied to his stump that he preferred not to risk an adverse Magical reaction.

A soft knock on the door meant that Minerva was back. His nightshirt was quickly pulled down and he once more wrapped the duvet round his middle. Just to keep things respectable.

**-o-0-o-**

Minerva applied the poultice, wrapped his leg in a linen bandage, and then made sure his leg was placed just so on a pillow. Then she went to the other side of the bed, and crawled in. She rolled toward his right side, and positioned her head on his chest.

"Hold me," she requested even as she cuddled closer to him. For added incentive, she pulled his left arm around her. That done, she murmured happily into his chest. "Much better."

As she had feared, Alastor wasn't protesting yet he wasn't actively snuggling.

"Alastor, when I expressed my desire to take this slowly between us, I fear you misunderstood. I did not mean to imply a glacial pace."

"Minerva, I want to do what's between us properly," protested Alastor.

"Properly does _**not**_ mean you cripple yourself. When I asked you to go walking with me yesterday, why didn't you tell me that you were overdoing it?" Minerva asked. "Your proper notions of a walking courtship have left you incapable of taking the relationship anywhere else but a hospital bed. Or to any other bed than a hospital bed."

"I _**like**_ walking with you. When I am with you, I stop feeling hollow." That was admitted in a very soft voice.

"You _**could**_ spend more time with me. And we wouldn't have to walk around the bay." Dear, she did sound a bit stroppy, yet the miserly Alastor seemed to be rationing the time he spent with her. A few hours here, a couple hours there yet most of the day he spent in his room. The two times he had kissed her had always been a quick buzz to the top of her head.

"I don't wish to drive you round the bend with my Moody-ness," was his explanation. "I need this, and I'll take whatever crumbs you'll give."

"While this Alastor is quite nice, I miss my irascible Alastor. The Auror, who when Transfigured into a bear cub, deliberately shredded Albus' favorite robe for bedding. "

"He told you?" was Alastor's surprised response.

"I was in the class," Minerva explained. "You were an _**adorable**_ bear cub. All ginger-furred and thoroughly pissed off with Albus. The best part was when you scampered out of the class as you completely gobsmacked Albus. He had everyone looking for you as he was afraid you had truly Turned Ursine. And there you were, asleep in his bed, having merrily torn most of his wardrobe into a comfortable den."

His only response was to close his eyes and shake his head in disbelief.

It was a perfect opportunity to ambush Alastor. With a quick movement, she took Alastor's face in her hand and brought it down to her level. Then she placed her closed lips against his.

At first, nothing. Alastor didn't respond and she wondered if she had been too bold, too soon. Perhaps she had further traumatized Alastor and then, he responded. A kiss, not the dry peck from your great-great auntie, but a proper kiss, the type that made your toes curl. The kind that made you wish to locate someplace private… and Alastor seemed to have the same delightful idea as he rolled toward Minerva. He pulled her close against him and...

Alastor winced. He rolled back on his side and growled an obscenity.

"Bugger me," was the cleanest phrase.

"Your leg?" Minerva asked. What an inane question.

"Aye, if I wasn't missing half of it already, I'd bloody cut it off," he rumbled. Carefully, he turned so he was facing Minerva. That done, he cupped Minerva's cheek with his left hand. "The spirit is willing…but I'm too knackered to do the full monty."

His hand slipped to behind her ear and then traced her jaw line.

"Perhaps Tabby will let me stroke her?" Alastor's brogue was heavy but his hand was light as he caressed her neck.

She reached out for him to reciprocate and he shook his head.

"I need to know that you're real. That it's _**you**_ that's here with me." His voice was rough. "Because I could never touch my Minerva. The one in the trunk… I could never touch her…No matter how hard I tried… I couldn't touch her… I want to _**feel**_ again. I wish to be _**normal**_."

Placing her hand on top of his, Minerva hoped that her silent reassurance would be enough. He just stared at her, mad-eyed and wild-haired, the very vision of a man on the edge of a precipice.

"I'm _**real**_, Alastor."

**-o-0-o-**

He couldn't get enough of touching her. Her face, her neck, her shoulders and her breasts. Oh God, her _**breasts**_. All for the touching and the marveling over and the kissing and licking….

It started off chastely. For all of a minute or three, then he was fumbling with her demure little sundress. Thank God, it didn't have any buttons on the front as he would have ripped them in his clumsy eagerness to _**feel**_ her. Somehow he was able to slip one hand down her neckline and touch her skin.

Skin to skin contact was what he craved after all those months in the box. He couldn't get enough of it and he grew dangerously bold. A gentle tug of her dress strap, the nuzzling of her breast through the thin fabric of her sundress.

As it was, he had hiked up her skirt when he realized that he had to stop.

He couldn't touch her _**there**_ as his need to feel was overwhelming him. Minerva was a slightly built witch and he was a big bruiser. If he wasn't in complete control, he'd hurt her.

The animal wanted her. The animal craved to be inside of her, hear her cry out while he rutted.

So he best not touch her there. Because he couldn't restrain himself.

_**Because I'm not Barty. I'd never go that far to hurt Minerva. **_

"Alastor? Whatever is the matter?" Minerva asked.

_**I don't want to stop touching you, but I have to. **_

_**You feel so good. After months of feeling hollow, there is something warm and live at the end of my fingertips. And God, the way you make me feel. For a bit there I was anything but empty. **_

_**I fancy you, want to touch you. But I'm afraid. There was an animal in the trunk with me. In my head. Changing the way I thought and felt. And I am afraid when I want you that much. That the animal will be the one who is with you. I don't know if I am in control. **_

_**I fear losing control to the beast. **_

_**Barty took so much from me, I can't let him take my humanity. **_

Moody didn't answer; instead he made a heroic effort at smoothing out her skirt. When he couldn't rid the skirt of its wrinkles, he retreated. Rolling on his left side, ignoring his injured leg, he put his back toward Minerva.

"Not like _**this**_," he whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

**For the Minerva Fest - **  
**Prompt Author:** Requested by Kelly Chambliss ~ written by Sel  
**Prompt**: How do Moody and Minerva deal with the fact that during the GoF year, she did not realize that he'd been replaced by an impostor? Their past relationship can be whatever you like: at school together, friends from the early Order days, lovers, enemies, etc.  
**Summary:** Minerva hopes that Alastor will never know exactly what Minerva McGonagall did with Barty while the real Alastor was in the trunk.  
**Warnings:** possibly DubCon depending on your definition of informed sexual consent. No rape.  
**Disclaimer:** "Harry Potter" belongs to J.K. Rowling and her legal licensees.  
**Author's Notes**: T

Thank you to the Letters Kelly, Terri and Lyndsey and T for their editing, auditing and suggestions.

**-o-0-o-**

Alastor had completely shut down. His back was to her and Minerva wasn't sure what to do. Well, besides catch her breath, as Alastor had gotten her into quite the state. He couldn't seem to get enough of touching and caressing her, which was exactly what Minerva needed. Plus there had been lots of kissing and nuzzling, of which Minerva had heartedly approved. Things had slowly progressed to Alastor gently tugging up her skirt and a primed and willing Minerva had been quite eager for Alastor to 'light the old blue touch paper'.

Then, with shaking hands, he had pulled her skirt back down, struggled to straighten it. He had then rolled onto his side, onto his bad leg and he wasn't saying anything.

"Alastor? Talk to me." She kept her voice soft.

"I may look like an animal, but I'm _**not**_ one," Alastor whispered.

"Alastor?" Minerva repeated.

Not a word.

Minerva realized that Alastor was in a very bad way and she decided this needed to be a face to face conversation. She got off the bed and walked over to Alastor's side of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as she sat next to him.

Debating on what to say, she just stroked his back.

_**He was held hostage in a trunk for nine months and was subjected to sexual torture from Barty. He won't really talk about what happened; I know about his faux Minerva mainly because I overheard him. Instead he simply expressed a desire in my old carcass. Things were going well when we were taking it extremely slowly. Instead of being happy with that, because after all, I had told him that's how I wish it to be, I decided to push the issue, causing him to panick. **_

_**Alastor was quite careful when he caressed me. His touch was slow and gentle. He went to pieces only after he pulled up my skirt. **_

_**Because he was about to touch me **__**there**__**. **_

_**He's forgotten what a **__**proper**__**, healthy desire feels like. **_

_**Bugger me for a fool that I didn't think of this when I decided to seduce him. **_

_**Alastor has been such a bloody survivor for so long that I had almost forgotten that there is a very sensitive man beneath the scars. **_

"You didn't hurt me, Alastor," Minerva softly stated. "You weren't an animal, Alastor. You were very tender and gentle. I quite enjoyed your touch."

"I _**had**_ to stop," he explained. "Had to stop the beast."

"You're _**not**_ a beast. You are a man, an exceptionally brave man, who has survived a very traumatic ordeal. Talk to me," Minerva softly requested. "Tell me what you're feeling."

"I can't explain it to myself, let alone you," protested Alastor. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

"Alastor, please, try," she asked.

Alastor Moody continued to stare at the ceiling, refusing to meet Minerva's eyes. When he finally spoke, his tone was dry and dispassionate.

"I don't feel anything except when I'm with you. You're just so alive, Minerva. So vibrant, so bloody Minerva. I hoped that we made love, that when I was inside you… that I'd feel _**alive**_…"

"Alastor? Why did you stop then?" Minerva asked.

"Because I was feeling too much when I was touching you." There was a slight tremor in his voice which grew more noticeable as he continued to talk. "The beast inside me, he _**touching**_ you. I can't control him and I was terrified that he might hurt you."

Deliberately, she put her hand on his chest. Bloody hell, she had no idea what to do next. If Alastor had merely fallen off his broom, he needed to get back on it before the fear of falling became ingrained. However, that was flying, not making love. Was this a mistake? Handling this in an honest, forthright manner was probably the wrong way to do this, but Alastor had never been one for mollycoddling.

"Alastor, I know you wouldn't hurt me." She stated it firmly. "Look at me, Alastor. Do you truly believe that I'm _**incapable**_ of handling this alleged Beast of yours? If you were hurting me, I'd be able to defend myself."

"Barty hurt you," was his protestation.

"No, he was just a lousy lay," she sniped. "A really lousy, cack-handed lay. He wouldn't have known what to do with my clit even with a _Specialis Revelio._"

He looked at her, shook his head in mock stunned disbelief and she took his hand. Purposely, she placed it against her face.

"I enjoyed it when you touched me. I am _**real**_, Alastor. The monster you fear _**isn't**_. "

"The demons in one's head are more frightening than any chimera," was his retort.

"Alastor, I am easily the match for any of your monster," Minerva tartly reminded him.

They had a stare off, each daring the other one to look away first. At last, Moody nodded his head.

"Bully me? Well, I'm just letting you win," Moody barked a rough laugh.

"Bloody Aurors, so fearful to get in touch with their emotional side," was her fast response. Then in a softer voice, she asked, "Shall I stay? Or should I go?"

"Go," Alastor suggested. "I don't sleep soundly. Plus, I'm not feeling very lascivious right now."

"'tis alright," she insisted. "We can cuddle."

Then, not waiting for a response, she walked over to the other side of the bed. Alastor's buttoned down shirt was lying across the chair, so she picked it up.

"Mind if I change into this? It's far more comfortable to wear to bed," Minerva stated. "Feel free to look."

**-o-0-o-**

It was rather nerve wracking, Minerva had to admit. A woman of her age, putting on a peep show!

First of all, she undid her hair, so it hung down straight. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and slowly and deliberately removed her sundress, leaving her only wearing her knickers and her _soutien-gorge_. Really, she was wearing a rather lackluster bra, so she Transfigured the style to one a little more appealing. Alastor seemed to be a breast man, so he'd probably enjoy her wearing more of a balconette style.

Then she put on his shirt, strategically unbuttoned, and then turned to face him.

And he was… _**asleep**_. Both eyes were obviously closed and his fake eye was nowhere to be seen. His ravaged face was relaxed and he was smiling.

"Don't quit your day job," Minerva chastised herself. "You'll never get a job at the Moulin Rouge."

With expert fingers, she pinned back her long hair into a neat braid. Then being careful not to disturb Alastor, she climbed into bed with him, and carefully positioned herself. To her surprise, she felt Alastor move her closer to him, so she was resting her head on his chest. Her arm was positioned just so by Alastor and then he contentedly sighed.

"One of these days, I want to know the _**true**_ story behind your Rampaging Lion tat," he rumbled. He then buzzed the top of her head with a quick kiss. "And you'll never getting a job at the Moulin Rouge because you'll kill all the young laddies .They'll die from heart attacks, cocks stiff as tree trunks."

"Alastor…" Minerva was half amused, half scandalized.

"Go to sleep, lass," Alastor ordered.

**-o-0-o-**

Alastor woke her with his screaming. He was sitting up, bolt upright and he was ear-piercing. His eyes were open and he seemed awake.

"Alastor, whatever is the matter?" Minerva asked.

Instead of answering her, he kept screaming and Minerva gave him a sharp poke.

_**He's having an attack of the screaming abdabs. Yes, Alastor's screaming yet he's asleep. I need to wake him. **_

Whatever she did failed to wake him, so she was reaching for her wand in order to perform some delicate mind magic when Alastor stopped screaming. He stopped, turned towards her and mumbled, "Not real… still not letting Barty hurt you."

Then he fell back into bed and went back to sleep much to Minerva's amused consternation. Minerva wished that she could fall back asleep as easily.

**-o-0-o-**

She was still awake hours later, pondering Alastor's night… well afternoon terrors, when Alastor stretched.

"Good afternoon," he whispered. He gently buzzed her cheek. "Thank you, you kept the nightmares away. I haven't slept that good in far too long."

"Alastor?" Minerva was leery to ruin his good mood, but really, she needed to mention his little eppie. "You woke up screaming. You don't remember?"

"No," he admitted.

"You did," she said. "I couldn't wake you."

The burly Alastor looked sheepish, like a little boy caught in a fib.

""tis alright," Minerva reassured him. "You've been through an ordeal and you're healing."

Her compassion earned her an eye roll.

"That's my tetchty Alastor," Minerva cooed. For good measure, she glared at him.

And that moment crystallized everything for Minerva. Yes, this relationship might have started off as a balm to both their bruised souls, but there was a definite spark between them. Plus, her libido helpfully reminded her, Alastor had done such wonderful things to her, until he had gotten nervy.

Oh yes, how to handle that little bit of performance anxiety that Alastor had.

And make it quite enjoyable for her.

"Regarding what happened earlier today," Minerva fumbled.

Alastor was nearly as ginger as his hair. She knew Alastor well enough to know that he'd start attempting to change her mind, to persuade her that his earlier episodes was a mild inconvenience rather than a cause for true concern.

"I appreciate that you slowed down the pace for me."

There, a bit of a white lie. Barty Crouch had taken just about everything from Alastor; she should let him keep his pride.

"As much as I enjoyed it," she continued. "I'm glad you stopped. After all, I am older."

"You're being polite," grumbled Moody. "Because I was a screaming Nancy."

"Let's do this slow, Alastor. I like this part of a relationship," she explained. "Where we both obviously want the same thing, and we're postponing it."

"I don't wish to delay," Alastor complained. "I know I had a bit of eppie, nattering about monsters, but it won't happen again. Come back to bed, Minerva."

"Alastor," Minerva chastised him. "We're doing this _**slowly**_."

His obvious disappointment was a real ego boost.

**-o-0-o-**

For the next few weeks, Minerva proceeded to give him a list of demands. On how their relationship was to proceed.

Well, perhaps _**demands**_ was too harsh a term. Sexual stipulations?

Yes, that was it.

Sexual stipulations, carnal commands and erotic entreaties.

He and Minerva shared his bed at night. To his intense disgust, it was chaste. An invisible, magical bundling board between them. They could hold hands, they could snog and they could play footsies, well in his case, footie, but he couldn't cross that line.

The slow pace wasn't for _her_, Alastor had quickly realized. It was for _**him**_.

So he'd get comfortable with what he was feeling for her. That meant hand-holding and kissing, and only Minerva-authorized caresses of non-erogenous zones. Though Minerva only let him massage her feet the once. Seems that Minerva had never before experienced her freshly washed toes being properly sucked by a willing supplicant.

The leisurely exploration of various parts of Minerva took time, but sometimes he still got rattled by the strength of his desire. Those times he'd claim he needed a bit of a kip. Solo.

And once he was hale enough, he walked with her. And they talked. About what happened to him. Awkwardly at first, then with greater ease, and when he just couldn't voice what he was feeling, Minerva would simply hold his hand.

Minerva was comfortable and she was _**real**_.

He still had his nightmares, but they gradually decreased in frequency, instead he was dreaming very nice dreams of a long-haired witch. Who was not separated from him by a bloody bundling board.

It was late July, when Alastor finally asked her, how long? Well, perhaps he said it a bit cruder than that. Couldn't really blame him as he was a virile man in his earlier nineties and she was a feisty little minx.

"I don't know what you mean." Was all she said, which meant it was up to him to take the next step. To take that blasted bundling board and kick it to Kilkenny.

What was holding him back?

_**Barty Crouch, Junior.**_

He had to confront, head on, what the bastard had done to him, and what had happened between them.

And that meant Alastor Moody was going to Azkaban.

The decision made, it was best not to delay. Therefore he changed out of his courtin' clothes and into his work gear. The worn dragon hide coat and overcoat, worn quite thin in spots but soft and comfortable. You never trusted an Auror who wore new gear. Meant that they were either brand new, right out of the Academy or too enamored about keeping their new clothes pristine and intact.

"Be back in a bit," he rumbled to Minerva.

"Where ever are you going?" Minerva questioned.

"Having a bit of a walkabout," he not so helpfully explained.

To give Minerva credit, she didn't yell that he was a daft prat. Instead she nodded her head and announced that she had a book she wished to read, so it was good that he was heading out for the afternoon.

Their goodbyes said, Alastor left the small cottage and walked down the road for a bit. When he was far enough away, he quickly ate three bars of Honeyduke's finest chocolate. Kingsley had dropped them off for him, knowing that Alastor had a bit of sweet tooth.

Thus fortified, he Disapparated to Azkaban.

**-o-0-o-**

He hated Azkaban. Hated the Dementors as truly they were no better than the Dark Lord. But he stared hard at the dark shape in front of him, refusing to fear it.

"I'm here to see to see Barty Crouch, Junior," he informed the Dementor.

Damn thing was a bit of a daft prat, as it appeared greatly mystified by Alastor's blatant refusal to fall over and snivel.

"I know where he is," he informed the sheet wearing ghoul. "Don't be needing you to show me where he is. Be off with you."

Then Alastor hobbled off to Barty's cell, one hand wrapped around his blasting staff, the second in his pocket, right next to his wand. Couldn't be too cautious especially here.

He unlocked Barty's cell and stormed in.

Barty Crouch Junior was lying supine in a bed. There was an astringent odor of perpetual-cleaning spells in the air. The Death Eater was drooling, his jaws agape and his eyes were blank.

And Alastor Moody was overwhelmed by an urge to kill Barty. There was an animalistic rage building in Moody, the urge to strike out at the defenseless Crouch nearly unmanned him. Nearly took over Alastor's good sense.

The bastard had put him in a trunk for nine months, had nearly driven him 'round the bend and back again and mind-buggered Alastor until Alastor didn't know up from down, right from wrong and the real Minerva from Barty's faux Minerva.

_**Minerva.**_

_**Minerva McGonagall.**_

If it wasn't for Barty Crouch, Junior and nine months in a trunk, Alastor Moody, the real Alastor Moody would have been perfectly content with his pathetic little life.

It had taken the trunk to show Alastor how much he was missing.

That there could be joy and delight in a cuddly vixen by the name of Minerva McGonagall.

And if it wasn't for Barty, Alastor would never have known that.

That's what saved Barty's life. Though some might have considered it a mercy if Alastor had killed him, especially if you were Barty's dearly departed mum. His soulless body was in fact, his physical prison.

"You know Bartemius, my cell was a lot bigger than yours is," Alastor growled.

**-o-0-o-**

Minerva immediately knew when Alastor had returned back to the cottage, yet she remained in the terrace, reading her book. Alastor lumbered out of the cottage, noticeably carrying a long, no longer invisible bundling board. With a rather dramatic gesture, he threw it into the bay and then turned to face her.

"Come to my bed, Minerva," Alastor not so politely requested after he gave her long, hungry onceover.

"In the middle of the afternoon?" She playfully protested.

"If you wish I suppose we can always do it here," was his response.

"Alastor! What will the neighbors think?"

"That I'm a very lucky man..." was his rapid retort. "I've asked your chaperoning House Elves, Keki and Jaime, to disappear for a bit, so it's just us, lass."

"Just us?" Minerva asked.

"Just _**us**_," Alastor repeated, with additional emphasis on _**us**_.

He held out his hand to Minerva and then repeated his request that she join him in bed. The witch prettily blushed and nodded her head in agreement.

The End -


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N - **I just thought that I didn't wrap up "Tin" as neatly as I would have liked. I had needed an extension on the fest and tried to wrap it up quickly so while Alastor faced Barty, I thought it lacked a really big finish.

We left Alastor asking Minerva to come to his bed. He had held out his hand and she had reached for it.

* * *

She clasped his hand. And the two of them stood like that for a bit too long, like two teenagers gungho for the experience, but terribly uncertain of where everything went.

"Alastor," Minerva began. She wasn't sure what to say, but really, someone needed to break the sexual stalemate.

"I want to make love to you until my strength is gone," he softly informed her. Then Alastor grimaced in embarrassment. "If I can ever get my courage up... Minerva... I'm... _**scarred**_... What they did to my face..."

A nervous swallow followed Alastor's stumbling , hesitant exposition and Minerva realized anew, how difficult this... _**unveiling**_ ... was for Alastor. Yes, she _**knew**_ what Alastor's body looked like, however this was the first time, the _**real**_ first time for Alastor. It was one thing to be carried away by their mutual desire in the dark, but this disrobing would be in the light of day. And while they had, together, faced the ramifications of Alastor being in the trunk for nine months, Minerva wasn't a foolish romantic. There would still be significant pitfalls and pratfalls in their relationship.

But she was _**willing**_.

And he wasn't sure how she'd react to his blemishes. Yes, Minerva had helped him with his leg, but he had been burned... bit by a chimera... disfigured by the LeStranges... Alastor needed reassurance that she'd find him desirable despite his war wounds. Because as Minerva unexpectedly realized, someone in his past _**had**_ been repulsed. Someone hadn't been able to see beyond the physical damage to see the steadfast, stalwart soul beneath.

"Alastor..." she softly murmured her protest.

There was a brief brushing of Alastor's fingers against her lips to silence her. Then he kissed Minerva on the top of her head.

The top of her head! Why _**not**_ her lips?

"It's nothing compared to the rest of me... What I'm saying is... when I make love to you, 'tis alright if you close your eyes... In fact, I'd prefer if you did keep your eyes closed. I'm emotionally stronger than I was... but to see horrified revulsion in your green eyes... when I'm feeling... vulnerable..." Alastor ceased talking and once again, he swallowed. Then a dry quip in the hopes of salvaging his pride. "Naked, if you will."

"Alastor, when _**we**_ make love," Minerva deliberately stressed the plural. "I don't want you _**feeling**_ naked as I anticipate that you _**will**_ be naked. We will both be absolutely, positively starkers. And after we make love until we're absolutely exhausted, only _**then**_ will we close our eyes as we will both need to sleep."

Moody said not a word and then Minerva put both her hands on his face. Consciously, she peered into his eyes, _**both**_ eyes. The real and the fake.

"I went into this with my eyes open, Alastor. And you can not seriously expect that I will dampen my enjoyment of our physical relationship by refusing to look at you. I _**know**_ what type of man you are, I know your _**soul**_, Moody. I _**want**_ to touch you. I _**need**_ to touch you. I will _**not**_ close my eyes. I will _**not**_ look away in disgust or revulsion. I am not fickle in my affections. I _**will**_ touch you, Alastor, and I want you to enjoy every caress."

That demand delivered to a surprised and yet deeply affected Alastor, Minerva then placed her hands on Moody's broad shoulders.

In a softer tone, she advised him. "You really have only two choices in this, Alastor. I can either undress you in your bedroom..."

"Or?" Alastor asked. He was wearing a crooked grin and his voice was quite soft and affectionate. "Do I get to undress you? I'd much prefer that."

"I undress you _**here**_. I'd prefer your bedroom as it's a wee bit brisk."

And Alastor laughed. A belly laugh that seemed to start from his toes.

* * *

Undressing Alastor was more than the removal of his clothes. It was an act of faith, a gesture of his belief in her assurance that she wouldn't be repulsed, that she wouldn't look away.

And only after they were both pleasantly exhausted, did they close their eyes.


End file.
